


La Bella Vita

by rahleeyah



Category: Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahleeyah/pseuds/rahleeyah
Summary: In Buenos Aires, Hannibal and Clarice have built the perfect life for themselves, but when she unexpectedly falls pregnant everything they are and everything they have will hang in the balance.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling
Comments: 41
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

Some things cannot be purchased with money. Grace, sophistication, elegance; while there are those who believe that such characteristics are the sole province of the wealthy, those who _know_ are keenly aware that such belief is the product of a gauche misunderstanding of the meaning of the word _class._

In cultural capitals the world over there exists a small, exclusive club of people who are possessed of both wealth and class. Pretenders claiming to have one or the other may attempt from time to time to enter those circles, but their desperation belies their unsuitability, and the doors of privilege never open to them. They remain locked outside, noses pressed to the glass, fogging up the windows like children peering into a bar they will forever be too young to enter. Buenos Aires, like London, and New York, and Paris, boasts such a club, people of taste and means who come from all over the world to soak in the _good airs_ and enjoy the company of like-minded aficionados of music, and history, and theater, and dance. Here knowledge is more valuable than gold; the women clothe themselves in languages rather than diamonds. Oh, they have diamonds aplenty, but they know ostentation is the realm of the pretenders. Only the truly elegant can afford subtlety.

And in the upper echelons of the Argentine elite, there was no one who could match _La Bella_ and the _Dottore._ They were the pinnacle of sophistication, and the world lay at their feet.

It was said he called her _La Bella_ in homage to La Bella Farnese, the renowned beauty of fifteenth century Rome who had been mistress to one Pope and sister to another. The moniker was an homage to someone else, of course, but the truth remained a closely guarded mystery, and their peers enjoyed the whimsy of it, and did not question. Him they called _Dottore,_ for it was well known that he was both Italian and a doctor, though no one knew where in Italy he hailed from or in what field he had studied, and he had never, to anyone's knowledge, been a practicing physician. What need did he have to work, when coins dripped from his fingertips like water from a spring, and his every need was provided for already? They were soft spoken and well educated, appeared at every gallery opening and symposium, and they threw the most lavish parties, though rarely. An invitation to the home of La Bell and the Dottore was more precious than diamonds, and dearly sought after by everyone who fancied themselves of any importance.

Everywhere they went they were recognized; while they did not dabble in anything so uncommon and undignified as politics they had over the course of their three year tenure in Buenos Aires become something akin to royalty. Crowds parted before them, and curious whispers followed after them, and their compatriots vied for proximity to the throne, seeking to gain power by association. La Bella and the Dottore paid very little attention to such matters; they had no need for such petty squabbles.

On the eighth of December, as was their custom, La Bella and Dottore threw open the doors of their manse and welcomed no less than one hundred of their closest friends to enjoy a veritable feast. The theme of the event, as it was every year, was _The Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary._ Why the pair should choose to so extravagantly celebrate a Catholic feast day when they did not appear to possess any faith and were only observed to enter churches under the guise of appreciating the artworks within was unknown, and unremarked upon by their guests, who were too delighted with the invitation to question its motives. Women in understated silk gowns and men in sharp black tuxedos roamed the downstairs of the palatial home, their eyes hardly knowing where to fall; the walls resembled nothing so much as an art gallery, paintings and portraiture hung at carefully selected intervals, rotated throughout the year so that each time the guests entered they were treated to a new collection of never before seen pieces. The floors were marble, the furniture exquisite, the conversation restrained and fascinating. Instruments of various kinds and origins were displayed with the same care as the paintings, and the draperies on the windows were heavy and ornate. Waiters in crisp uniforms danced almost invisibly through the throng, and no sooner had a glass been emptied than it was refilled with wine of the most remarkable vintage. And the food; _oh,_ the food was glorious, a thing of beauty in itself, and the partygoers whispered that Dottore made it all himself, that his hand had touched each morsel before it was sent out to be devoured.

That year, as was the custom every year, Dottore led a small debate on the question of the _immaculate_ nature of the conception; was the Blessed Mother herself, from the moment of conception, free from the stain of original sin?

"The Pope himself is infallible," Lilibet Dufrense began the argument, as she did every year, with a glass of wine in hand. La Bella and Dottore were standing with Mrs. Dufrense - the Countess Dufrense, as it happened, though it pleased the Countess to remain a continent away from the Count, and their holdings - and a small cluster of people had gathered round them, eager to hear the exchange. "Pope Pius IX declared the Blessed Mother's immaculate conception in an apostolic constitution, and so the church's stance on the matter is clear."

"No one could doubt the devotion of the church to the doctrine," Dottore said. He was smiling; he did so enjoy these little games. "But the question is not whether it is a matter of doctrine, but whether it _ought_ to be."

"How could the child Christ, who is the son of God, be born of a vessel stained by original sin?" Lilibet countered. She was smiling, too, but only because she did not realize she had already lost the argument.

"If the child Christ is the son of God, how could he be stained by any vessel?" Dottore answered. "Unless, of course, original sin is transmitted through physical means, communicated through the sharing of blood between mother and child. And if original sin can be transferred in such a way, does logic not then dictate that other sins may be communicated in the same fashion? Were you to be transfused with the blood of an adulterer, would you be required to pay penance for their sins?"

"They would say yes, in the States," Richard DeBurges cut in, then. "Homosexual men are prohibited from donating blood, for fear that they carry AIDS." DeBurges was an author, and a poet, and an American, and a homosexual, and so Dottore deferred to him as an expert on such matters.

"The Blessed Mother was chosen as the vessel of the son of God, and blessed for having been chosen." The Countess did not entirely approve of DeBurges, and she shot him a withering look as she spoke.

"She was chosen, but she did not choose, did she?" this from La Bella; when she spoke in English her voice carried with it the faintest trace of a West Virginia coal mine, though her companions were not well-trained enough to place it. "God is said to have granted man free will, but was Mary given the chance to reject the Christ child? Or was she not simply informed, and forced to proceed?"

"Are you suggesting that God _raped_ the Virgin Mary, La Bella?" DeBurges's eyes had gone wide; he had just found the subject of his next novel, delivered to him from a most unexpected source. He would thank her, in the introduction, years later; _grazie, la bella,_ was all it said. The novel would become an international best seller.

"Did Mary not say _I am the Lord's servant?"_ The Countess looked scandalized by the very suggestion. "Does that not indicate her agreement?"

"In the book of Matthew, Mary is found to be with child, and it is Joseph who receives a visit from the angel Gabriel, informing him that the child is the son of God. In the book of Luke, Gabriel visits Mary, and tells her she will conceive a son. Neither account asks for her agreement." Dottore was speaking to the Countess, but his eyes were on La Bella, and there was approval, and perhaps even appreciation in his gaze. The question of freewill, of self-determination, of _choosing,_ was of particular interest to La Bella and the Dottore.

And so it went, throughout the evening; wine flowed like a river, and food of such quality and quantity as no one else had seen before was consumed with a careful sort of awe, and debates on the finer points of religion and philosophy were undertaken with an almost childlike glee until all the guests were stuffed to the gills with ideas as much as physical sustenance, and La Bella and Dottore ushered them out with handshakes and cheek-kisses and well wishes. When the last guest had departed the pair left the matter of cleanup in the hands of their capable servants, and retreated to their private domain upstairs.

* * *

" _Fuck,"_ Clarice whined.

He did so enjoy it when she lost all pretense of refinement, and redoubled his efforts with relish.

After the party, after watching her, beautiful and regal and shining brighter than the sun, there was nothing Hannibal wanted more than to consume her. What he had learned over the past three years, what she had taught him, was that consumption was not so black and white as _eat or be eaten_ ; there was more than one way to draw another into one's self, and they had discovered more pleasures in one another than he had ever found in the swallowing of another.

She lay stretched out on their bed, a vision, a goddess; her hair was black as night, now, dyed as part of the physical transformation she had undergone when she ceased to be _Special Agent Starling_ and became instead _La Bella._ The mess of her curls lay stark and beautiful against white silk pillowcases, the tendons in her neck straining beneath the tension of her pleasure, her pale, lean arms flung above her head as she gave herself over to her ravishment. Still she wore her dress, silk of a deep aubergine color - she had long since learned her husband's preferences, and took pleasure in pleasing him - the fabric bunched around her hips, leaving her toned legs and glossy sex bare for his enjoyment.

And _oh,_ but he was enjoying himself, dipping his tongue between her silken folds, teasing out her taste and the sound of her moans, conducting the symphony of their depravity with delight. His shirt had been lost in the teasing dance of kisses that led them from the staircase to their bedroom, his tie along with it, but he still wore his trousers, and within their confines his cock ached for want of her. _Not yet,_ he told himself; he had always possessed an inhuman degree of self-restraint, and he employed it now, knowing that the end result would be all the sweeter, for having waited.

But he was also possessed of a preternatural ability to smell and to taste, his senses godlike and unparalleled, opening to him an experience of the world that lesser beings could not fathom. Over the years he had come to know her body, the sights, the smells, the tastes, the textures of her, committed every inch of her to his memory, and as his mouth played over her sex he was struck by the sudden realization that something was, not _wrong_ , exactly, but certainly out of place.

"Clarice," his whispered her name against her folds and was rewarded with a soft mewl of pleasure, the result of his lips caressing her in a way that made her shudder. It was only here, in the sanctity of their private quarters, upstairs, away from servants and guests and the prying eyes of the world, that he felt safe enough to use her name, and the inherent vulnerability of the word had become erotic in itself.

"Tease," she gasped, for he had taken her nearly to the edge of bliss, and yet refused to let her fall. Perhaps she had not noticed the curiosity in his voice; denial was a favorite game of his, and perhaps she thought that was all that was afoot.

"My darling," he said, rising up above her, looking down on her as if the answer to his question could be found written on her skin. Her knees grasped at his hips, trying to pull him down into her, but he would not be deterred. "Something has changed."

Her eyes darkened, doubt gathering there; she did not understand him, yet.

"At the risk of sounding crass," he said, "you taste different."

Her cheeks colored. She was no longer what she had been when they first met, young and inexperienced and trying to make up for what she lacked with dogged determination. He thought of her as she had been, then, carrying her best handbag and yet wearing those terrible scuffed shoes, a little girl trying to be brave, and he smiled, to see what she had become, in her couture gown and her decadent dishabille.

"I mean no offense-"

"Is it...bad?" she asked, trying to close her thighs ineffectually, his bulk between her legs preventing the effort.

"No," he answered at once. Nothing about her had ever been _bad._ "There are many factors that might contribute to such a change, and you are as delicious now as you have ever been."

 _But you are not the same._ He knew what it was; the knowing had settled in his chest heavy as a stone. She had changed; _everything_ had changed. The only question that remained, to his mind, was how best to broach the topic, when he knew already that the very idea was unbearable to her. It would not do to distress her, when they were both so close to their pleasure already, but his cock had begun to deflate as his mind whirred restlessly within him, and he could see her own desire had begun to fade beneath her uncertainty.

To ask the question would be to open a door so long kept closed, would be to acknowledge the potential end of the life they had built together. The end of everything. And yet he knew he ignored it at his own peril; the words must be asked, the investigation begun, a plan of attack laid, and there would not be a better moment than this one.

"Clarice," he said her name again, feeling strangely formal despite their relative state of undress. "I think you may be pregnant."


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't want it."

Clarice spoke the words calmly, dispassionately, with all the investment he might have expected from her had they been discussing the weather, and not their prospective child.

He had known, before now, her feelings on the matter; it would have been foolish, and to his mind terribly disrespectful of her, for them to enter into a sexual relationship without discussing family planning, and so they had, and Clarice's position had been made clear: _no babies_. Hannibal strongly supported his lover's personal autonomy in this as in all things, and he had deferred to her on the matter of contraception. Fatherhood held an idle sort of curiosity for him; no paternal instinct had never compelled him, but the process fascinated him, and now that the possibility had asserted itself that fascination returned. The thought that she might, at this very moment, be incubating a new life, a tiny creature made of their flesh and bone and brought forth despite their feeble human attempts to prevent it, was an intriguing one, and one he wished to explore further. It seemed to him to be an opportunity, and he did not want to cast it aside lightly.

"The choice is yours," he told her.

They lay together on their bed; Clarice had left him, for a time, his stunning pronouncement having completely obliterated any amorous feeling in her, and when she returned he saw that she had traded her silk dress for a satin negligee. In her absence he had undressed himself, casually discarded the remnants of his tuxedo and replaced it with a pair of silk pajama pants, and stretched himself out upon the bed, picking up a book to read while he waited. The upstairs apartment was vast and sprawling, and a suite of rooms had been set aside for Clarice's private use, should she wish to spend time away from him, but he had known that she would return on this night. The question that had been raised was too monumental; she would not want to wrestle with it alone. And then she had, returned to him, with very little fanfare, gracefully lay herself down beside him, her dark hair spilling across the pillowcases as they reclined together. She was watching him, now, eyes bright and shining at him in the darkness.

"Just like that?" she asked him. "It's my choice, and you'll go along with whatever I say?"

Clarice did so love the push and pull of argument between them, he knew; she had honed her skills at debate, and sometimes he rather felt as if she started these little contests just to see what might happen. Still she surprised him, sometimes, and he was surprised, now, to hear her react almost as if she found his deference disappointing.

"Yes," he said at once. "Having a child requires a great deal more from you than it does from me. It's only right that the decision rest with you."

As he spoke he reached out and placed his palm against her belly, feeling the softness of her beneath the satin, watching his hand rise and fall in time to her deep, even breaths. He could almost feel the rush of her blood beneath her skin, could almost hear it, almost taste it; what would it be like, to watch her belly swell? To see her breasts grow heavy with milk, to watch as their child emerged from the warm wet place between her legs where Hannibal had so often sought to bury himself? His lifeless cock twitched in answer to the images that flashed through his mind, the thought of taking her, tasting her while she carried another life within her suddenly, surprisingly erotic and enticing to him.

"And if it didn't? What would you choose, if the choice was yours?"

That was what she really wanted to know. A breathless hypothetical they had only discussed once before - in the Chesapeake house, a lifetime away from where they were now - had become a very real question of life and death, and she wanted to know whether his thoughts had changed, now that a child was within their reach.

"I would keep it," he said simply. He did not have to think too long or too hard about it; he knew the answer already. Though Hannibal's personal philosophy held no room for gods or devils or heavens or hells, he had devoted rather a lot of time to the concept of entropy, the study of chaos theory. He would not have said it was fate, that delivered this would-be child into their hands; he did not believe in fate, as such. But chaos had introduced a new piece to the board, and he was too curious to learn what might become of it to simply cast it aside in an effort to maintain his comfortable status quo. He had thought, for some time, that he might through Clarice make a place for Mischa to return to the world; he had hungered for it, sought to shape her, mold her, make her, wipe clean the slate of her mind and bring back that which had been lost to him. He had put such ideas to the side, having learned that Clarice herself was too resilient and too remarkable to be replaced, but now...now there was a little cluster of cells nestled in her womb that might, one day, become what he had sought. A little girl, Mischa reborn; the thought of it made him ache.

"Why?" she asked him, blunt as she often was with him. Their initial interactions had been built on pretense and obfuscation, but she hid nothing from him now, and her honesty pleased him.

"Legacy," he said, knowing that if he'd said _Mischa_ her heart would have turned against the idea in a moment. She hid nothing from him, but Hannibal still had his secrets; the habits of a lifetime were proving difficult to break. And it was not a lie, precisely; it was only a secondary motivation, and not the primary, and he knew that he would, eventually, be forgiven for the omission.

"You and I have engineered our disappearance from this world," he continued. "No one is looking for Special Agent Starling, any more, and Hannibal Lecter is no longer among the top ten of the FBI's most wanted. It's all terrorists, now. I checked."

She laughed, lightly, and he took that as a good sign, and carried on. "We have left no footprints behind us. Oh, there are those who remember the stories, but that's all we are now. Stories. You, a cautionary tale. And I...I am a bogeyman, to frighten children. When we are gone, who will know the truth of us? What mark will we have left upon this earth? A child is a _legacy_ , Clarice. We can pass on all that we have learned. The wealth that keeps us comfortable could pass into their hands, and raise up another generation. A piece of us will live on, through them. A beating heart formed of our DNA, the foundations of our very selves replicated in another living body. And perhaps another, and another; centuries from now there may still be a piece of you, out there in the world. Reproduction is the only means of achieving immortality."

"And you want that, don't you? _Your descendants will be like the dust of the earth, and you will spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south."_

He did so enjoy it when she quoted scripture to him. The Lutherans had done their work well, with her.

"I would settle for one descendant," he said modestly. "Whatever I may wish now, my desires will count for little once I'm gone."

"It will be years before this child can do anything but soil itself and cry. What happens if you...Hannibal, you aren't a young man, any more."

He had not ever been young in their acquaintance, but he knew as well as she that the passing of the years was not changing him as perhaps it might another man. He was still slender and graceful as he had ever been in youth, his hands still strong enough to kill, his teeth still sharp enough to tear, his cock still eager enough to keep her satisfied. It was a point of pride, to him, that despite having passed the milestone of his sixtieth birthday he was hale and healthy and as capable now as he had ever been. Some had accused him of being the devil incarnate, and some had waxed lyrical about his godlike senses, and he delighted in fanning the flames of their suppositions. His capabilities had, to his mind, far surpassed those of his human brethren, and it seemed almost laughable to him that the failings of old age might dare to attack him as they did other, lesser men.

"Perhaps not," he said. "But I am not like other men, my darling. If I were, you wouldn't be here."

No, she would not have chosen him, if he had been just another _man._ She'd had her pick of them, once, and spurned them all, given her beauty and her breathy moans and the clutching of her lean thighs and the salty taste of her sweat to _him._ Clarice had delivered herself into his hands because she found him worthy; surely, he thought, she must know that he would not leave her until he'd had his fill of her, and it would be decades before he'd even entertain the notion.

"I've many good years left in me yet. More than enough to see our child to adulthood."

From other men such certainty might have been born of arrogance; Hannibal was only stating the facts as they stood.

"A child," she mused, and he could hear it in her voice, the way her own certainty was eroding. There was very little in the way of maternal instinct in his Starling; he had seen that from the very first. She was too dedicated to her own independence to impulsively take on such a burden, and she had confessed to him outright that she felt no yearning for a babe of her own to hold. But perhaps now her mind was changing; perhaps she felt, as he did, that it was an opportunity they ought not allow to pass them by.

"You don't have to decide tonight," he told her.

Clarice smiled, and covered his hand with her own where it lay against her belly.

"We don't know for certain there even _is_ a child, Hannibal."

"You doubt the cleverness of my tongue?" he asked her, teasing. "You wound me."

"Your tongue is very clever," she agreed, laughing. As she spoke she wrapped her delicate fingers around his wrist, and very slowly began to nudge his hand down her body, away from her stomach, low along her pubic bone. "But I was trained in forensics, not taste. I want a test, first, before I make any decisions."

To her credit her voice remained steady and level even as their combined hands drifted lower, beneath the hem of her short negligee, back up to reveal that she wore nothing at all beneath it.

"And I don't want to think any more. Do you think yourself capable of distracting me, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal's hand had begun its own journey, nimble fingers finding their way through the thatch of coarse curls at the apex of her thighs. The words _Doctor Lecter_ falling from her lips never ceased to inflame him, and so he turned his face into the crook of her neck, nipped her gently with his teeth as his fingertips swirled through the wetness gathering between her legs.

"I think you'll find me _very_ distracting, Clarice," he murmured against her skin, and she shivered, and they set aside all thoughts of the future, and their future progeny, in favor of more immediate delights.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarice sat alone, perched on the edge of the vast marble tub, one of six scattered around the upstairs apartment of their sprawling home in the heart of the city. There was something oddly incongruous about the bathrooms; the manse was a bastion of beauty, an artwork in itself, every inch of it given over to the display of tasteful elegance and refinement, and the idea that the architects behind this marvel of grace had spared a thought for the base practicalities of human need had seemed almost strange to her when she first arrived here. To her mind it had seemed as if the sort of people who could inhabit such a place would surely be above such crass urges; La Bella and the Dottore were not entirely human, in their opulence and their calculated dignity, but they were only the parts Clarice and Hannibal were playing, and when they shed the skins of their second selves at the end of every day they were still very much in need of a bathroom or two and the services provided therein.

This particular room was her favorite of all of them. It was cavernous, twice as large as the bedroom that had been hers a lifetime before in the duplex she'd shared with Ardelia. The thought - _where is Aredlia, these days -_ floated through her mind, but only briefly. Clarice had long since honed her mental reflexes, and she did not dwell on things she could not change, did devote much of her inner life to pondering the world she had belonged to, before, or what had become of it in her absence. In fact, it was hard to believe the duplex had been real at all, when it seemed so pale and lifeless in comparison to the place she called home now. The old reliable shower and toilet and sink she had known back then had been replaced with _this,_ with miles of mosaic tiles adorning the walls and a vast marble tub that could have comfortably accommodated four grown adults, with a sparkling chandelier and a frosted bay window overlooking the city, with golden candelabras and plush towels, a single pair of which had cost more money than anything she'd ever owned in her old life. Her cosmetics sat in perfect crystal jars along the vanity, toothbrush and comb elevated somehow from their plain domesticity by the artwork of the canisters made to hold them, but there was nothing that could disguise the base roughness of the item she had purchased and set there on the counter, the item that had left her sitting on the edge of the tub, staring into soft golden glow of the chandelier contemplatively.

Technically, she had not purchased it. Technically, Rosa had; Clarice had cornered her favorite of the servants just after breakfast, and sent her into the city with a pocketful of coins to make the purchase on her behalf. La Bella was too well known in their little neighborhood; it wouldn't do, for someone to see her at the chemists and learn what was afoot. Perhaps seeing Rosa there would arouse suspicion, but Clarice was certain none of her peers would guess at the truth, certain they would instead assume Rosa needed it for herself, that they would forget having seen her the moment she passed from view. They paid very little attention to servants, as a rule. Rosa had performed her task quickly and quietly, and had not asked a single question; perhaps that was why _Señora_ preferred her to the others. Curious servants did not last long in this house.

Rosa had delivered the package into her hands, and Clarice had retreated here, submitted to the mortifying ordeal of opening the package, juggling its contents in trembling hands, reading the instructions, and finally, starting the process that would lead, eventually, to the answers she sought.

In two minutes' time she'd know for a certainty whether Hannibal's tongue had the right of it, whether she was, even now, carrying his child. Two minutes; an eternity, and an instant, all at once. Two minutes to wonder, to question, and then, finally, the relief of knowing. But would it be a relief? She wondered. If she found she wasn't pregnant she would be spared the onerous task of deciding what to do about a potential baby, and perhaps that would be a relief. Perhaps not, however, for the idea had now been planted in her mind, and it had begun to take root.

Hannibal _wanted_ a child. A legacy, a piece of themselves to live on in the world after they were gone. It was precisely the sort of answer she expected from her husband, precisely the sort of idea she imagined would thrill him. He was much concerned with chaos, and the questions of existence, and a child would give him an opportunity to study first hand the molding of a mind. Any child of theirs would not settle the debate on nature versus nurture, as far as Clarice was concerned; with Hannibal's blood running through his veins, and Hannibal for a father, it would be impossible to tell, she thought, whether the child had been born or made any particular way.

 _But this child will have you for a mother,_ a little voice whispered in the back of her mind. What would she have to teach a child? Everything she was, Hannibal had made her. The clothes, the manners, the languages, the arguments; he had slipped into her mind the moment they first met, and carefully, coldly, judiciously stripped her of her ties to everyone and everything save for him. Was it not her introduction to Hannibal that had led to her questioning her work with the FBI? Was it not Hannibal's refinement that had her subscribing to _Vogue,_ purchasing shoes she could not afford, eschewing her relationships with other men when they all paled in comparison to him? Was it not Hannibal who had allowed her to put to rest the long and bitter struggle between her heart and her father's ghost? The operas she adored, the books she trailed her fingertips against so reverently, the music he played for her, the symphony of his panting breaths against her skin; everything she loved in this life he had given to her. What of _Clarice_ remained, now?

Her spirit, perhaps, her fierce independence; he had given her so much, but left it to her to decide what she would accept. He had made no demands of her - she had chosen him. Would that be the lesson she bequeathed to her child, then, the one thing he would learn from his mother that his father could not teach? That to live was to _choose,_ and that those choices were not so clear cut as others might claim them to be. In the Chesapeake house, a lifetime before, Clarice had been faced with a choice, between the life she had worked so hard for, the pursuit of what she understood _justice_ to be, and Hannibal. Hannibal, a killer, a monster in the truest sense of the word, a man her sense of _justice_ said ought to be held accountable for his crimes. By what right could they judge him, Hannibal who operated so far outside the bounds of ordinary society that their laws seemed so trivial in comparison to him? Hannibal had offered her beauty, and freedom, and the strength that came from standing beside him. A dead-end job, with no money, no respect, and nothing to show for all her years of sacrifice, or _Hannibal._ That was her choice, and in the end it had been an easy one.

And this child would be the product of her choice. This child would be _theirs,_ made from both of them. For a moment she tried to picture it, Hannibal standing before her, holding a babe in his arms. Perhaps another woman, thinking of her beloved so, might feel a rush of fondness, of affection, of yearning for what might be. Clarice did not; the image faded before she could capture it, so at odds with her understanding of the world that her mind could not resolve the shapes and shades of it into form. Mother, father, and child, a perfect little family; how could such a tableau be made from the tools at hand, crafted from Clarice and Hannibal themselves?

That vision faded before it even swirled into being, and was replaced, almost at once, by the image of Evelda Drumgo, her baby in a carrier across her chest like a shield, a gun in her hands. Disgust washed over Clarice in waves so strong she nearly heaved out the meager contents of her stomach onto the marble floor right then. Evelda, the harbinger of doom, the impetus for the destruction of Clarice Starling, the poison that had festered in her veins and left her isolated and disdained by the FBI until at last Hannibal came to set her free. What would have happened to her, if not for Evelda? If they had captured her alive, if she had not known they were coming; how much longer would John have lived? Might Clarice have given in, late one night, to the affection she knew he harbored for her? Would her success have salvaged what remained of her career? Would she have been half so interesting to Hannibal had she not been so publicly mauled, left vulnerable and in need of his aid?

That was the last time Clarice had held a baby in her hands, that day at the fishmarket when she had washed the blood from Evelda's squalling son. A tiny, powerless thing, the boy had been unable to do anything but scream, and Evelda had put him in danger, had thought that his presence alone would be sufficient to protect her, had risked his life, in the hopes of saving her own. That was the source of Clarice's disgust, at present, Evelda's careless disregard for the responsibility that had been given to her when she bore that child. Instinctively her hand went to her belly, palm against her skin, as if she could, even now, reach the child within and hold him. _If he was ever in danger, I would do anything to protect him,_ Clarice thought. He wasn't even real, yet, this could-be child, wouldn't be real until Clarice unstuck herself from the tub and went to read the results of the test, but already she felt fiercely, overwhelmingly protective of him. He was _hers._

Had her mother felt this way, once, about the children she could not feed? Her mother who had shipped her off to distant relations thousands of miles from home, and never seen her again? Was that protection, or was it abdication?

 _I would let us both starve to death before I would send him away from me,_ Clarice thought, and found herself surprised at the heat of her own emotions. Was that really her own voice she heard, or Hannibal's? They had dealt with the matter of her feelings towards her father years before, but the wounds left by her mother's disregard were buried even deeper, and she could not even recall when last she'd spoken of her mother to Hannibal. This sudden, fierce wave of grief was unexpected; she had not known, before this moment, the resentment she still carried towards her mother, for having been sent away. Perhaps it had not been there at all, perhaps it had only come into being now that Clarice was to be a mother herself.

Her mother had not discarded all of her children, after all. Circumstances had not been so dire that all of the children had to be turned over to the state for care. Clarice's mother had _chosen_ this cleaving, had looked at her children, and decided which she could stand to lose, and which she could not. And it was Clarice who had lost. Or won, perhaps; if she had not been sent to the farm, she never would have heard the screaming of the lambs, and she never would have run. If she had not run she would not have been sent to the Lutherans, and if she had not been sent to the Lutherans, perhaps she would not have developed the work ethic and deep-seated desire for purpose that sent her to the FBI. And if it had not been for the FBI, she never would have met Hannibal. Where would she be, now, if her mother had not cast her aside?

 _Cleaning hotels in West Virginia, with a pack-a-day cigarette habit and four bratty kids to feed,_ she thought. She thought, and was troubled by the thought, as the long forgotten twang of her youth filtered through the more cultured timbre her thoughts had assumed in recent years. Perhaps she ought to be grateful to her mother, for sending her away, for sending her here. To this beautiful house, to this beautiful, terrible man, to this moment where she sat on the edge of a great abyss, wondering what was to be.

 _Two minutes are up, Starling,_ she told herself. It was time, now. The die had been cast; now it was up to her to see where it had landed. She took one very deep breath, rose to her feet, and walked slowly towards the vanity as a condemned man approaching the gallows. One glance was all it took, to seal her fate.

_Two pink lines._

_Positive._

_Pregnant._

The baby was real, after all, and he was _hers._ Clarice would not let anyone take him from her now, least of all herself.


	4. Chapter 4

Every woman would have her little mysteries, and Hannibal was content to allow his wife her own, to give her the privacy she sorely needed as she sifted through the confusing welter of her own desires. When Clarice had announced her plan to him, told him that she intended to to find out through means more scientific than the skill of his tongue whether she was actually pregnant, Hannibal had announced his own intentions to spend the day at the _Centro Cultural Recoleta._ In his life as the _Dottore_ Hannibal did not work, as such, but he served on the board of the _Centro,_ and he was known to pass whole days there. On Saturdays such as this the _Centro_ often hosted a craft market, and he had set off thinking that in addition to wandering through the exhibitions and the impromptu dance classes he might also purchase some trinket that might please her.

It pleased him to please her, to see her smile, to think that he had in some way come to understand her well enough to know her preferences, her secret delights. As he drifted among the stalls, ignoring the efforts of the vendors to chat with him and the curious stares that followed in his wake, he found his mind returning, again and again, to the question of the child, and the decision that lay before his beloved. There was no doubt in his mind that she was pregnant, now; he had taken accounting of the days, and noted how long it had been since the last time she bled, noted how she had begun to turn her nose up at the scent of a pungent cheese. To his knowledge she had not been ill, but that was not the singular symptom some made it out to be. It was early days, yet, and sickness might come for her still, but there were too many variables for him to rely upon the absence of that one indicator as proof. He did not begrudge her the need for tangible evidence, but his own mind was made up, and so the questions that concerned him now were no longer hypothetical.

Would she choose in the end, his Starling, to carry this burden? She had told him _no,_ but she was not opposed to changing her mind when faced with new information. An admirable trait, that, he thought; to cling stubbornly to principles despite the ever-changing nature of the world was to become staid and foolish and eventually obsolete. A quick mind, a rational heart, the dignity to acknowledge previous failings without bitterness, these qualities she possessed, and he loved her for them, and many other things besides. _Loved_ , in his own way; he did not experience the world as other men did, but Clarice had settled herself inside his chest, wrapped her delicate hands around his beating heart, become the most interesting, most precious piece of himself. He would burn the very world to ashes, for her sake, if she required it of him, and feel no guilt. The world itself meant nothing, compared to his wife. And perhaps one day, he might feel the same for their child.

He had decided already that the child would be a girl. He could feel it, just as he could feel the warmth of the sunshine up on his skin. The teacup would not be made whole, but a new one had been procured in its place. A little girl had once meant more to him than anyone or anything else in all the world, and he could sense her drawing closer to him, growing larger by the second, pale, starfish-shaped hands reaching for him. When she came to him he would hold her, and keep her _safe_ , protect this most precious seedling and watch her blossom as she had not been allowed to do in her previous incarnation.

If only Clarice would consent. Though he possessed the means to change her mind, chemically or hypnotically or otherwise, he now believed that to strip her of control in such a way would be crass, and he found no pleasure in the thought. Clarice would have to _choose,_ of her own accord, or else the coming of the child would be no victory for him. Chaos would have its way; he would not interfere.

At the craft market he selected for her a ceramic bowl that had been lovingly shaped by an old woman with gnarled hands and eyes gone milky with cataracts. The bowl had been glazed in a bright, cheery yellow hue, and a black bird had been painstakingly painted on its center. Starlings were uncommon in this part of the world, and he knew he would find no rendering of one here. Still, though, that little black bird called to him for her sake, and he thought she might enjoy it. The wares for sale at the market were remarkably ordinary, inexpensive and unsophisticated, but they had been crafted by hand, using techniques that had existed for centuries, and each one was unique. The little bowl he carried back to their manse in a brown paper package held almost no monetary value, but there was not another like it anywhere in the world, and for that reason alone it was precious. Just as _she_ was precious, for she knew no rival.

When he arrived at their home he found Clarice nowhere in sight, but he had not expected her to venture out of their apartment on this day. She would need time to think in silence, time to forget _La Bella_ and become, once more, Clarice. It was Clarice who would make this choice for them, in the end. Clarice who had lost her father so young, who had been sent away by her mother, Clarice who had struggled and fought and bled in her desperate bid for distinction, Clarice who had been so long alone. La Bella did not exist, not in any way that mattered; La Bella had no memories from which to draw conclusions about her own desires. Clarice did, though.

In order to occupy himself for the few remaining hours left before dinner, Hannibal passed a shopping list to Rosa, his favorite of the servants, rolled up his sleeves, and gave the rest of the staff the afternoon off. It was, he thought, a very special day, and a special day called for a special meal. He set about rolling pastry for tartlets, and whisking eggs for custard, took the provisions Rosa had procured for him with a smile and set his sharpest knife into them at once. He worked methodically, without need for consulting one of his countless cookbooks, for these dishes he knew off by heart. Veal cutlets, for protein, for strength, for tenderness. Ratatouille, for comfort, for home, for the aubergines that had so delighted Mishca once, and might again. Lemon tartlets, for sharpness, for brightness, for brilliance. These things he would feed to himself, and to Clarice, this nourishment he would give to the child even now growing within her belly.

When at last the meal was prepared he arranged the dishes upon a marble serving tray, his hands steady and strong on the polished wooden handles, and carried it up to the terrace where he found Clarice waiting for him.

The sun was sinking low on the horizon, painting her in the hues of fire, oranges and reds and yellows. She glowed, radiant, a phoenix against an azure sky. She had burned herself to ashes on the shores of Chesapeake Bay, and rose before him now transcendent, resplendent, inviolable.

"Good evening," he said, as he laid his burden carefully in the center of the table. Clarice wore a simple black dress this evening, gathered beneath her breasts and flowing away into a softly swishing skirt, her feet bare on the tiled mosaic floor of the terrace. And though he had seen her shoeless more times than he could count he found himself entranced, for a moment, by the slender grace of her pale feet, by the thought that to appear before another in such a way was an intimacy all its own. It implied comfort, and security. It implied that she had no intention of running away.

"Hannibal," she answered, sighing, and he found relief, and hope in the word. He needed to leave her, to go and fetch the wine to complete their meal, but more than that he needed to touch her. And so he went to her, this glorious creature he called his own, and as he approached she stepped up to him, so that in the next moment she was nestled in his embrace, her breath warm against the tender skin of his neck. Her teeth were neat and straight and could have, at such close range, torn the life from him without difficulty. Perhaps that was why his heart raced so, when she kissed his neck, when he held her like this; perhaps it was the knowledge that such affection was not without danger. Each time he drew her into him he risked his own destruction, and could only trust that _this_ time she would not be the end of him. Perhaps he had always enjoyed holding his hand above the flame.

"You know," he said, softly. It was not a question; she had told him that she meant to take a test, to find out for a certainty, and his Clarice always accomplished every task she undertook. She was, always, tenacious, in everything that she did. The thing was done, and she knew, now, whether he'd had the right of it. All that was left, then, was for her to tell him, for her to reveal to him the choice that she had made, for he felt in the tension of her muscles beneath his hand that the decision had been made already.

"Yes," she said. _Yes,_ she knew, and _yes,_ she was. In that one simple word he heard precisely what he had been expecting to hear. She was pregnant. It was no longer a question of _ifs_ or _maybes;_ the hypothetical had become reality. His heart swelled within his chest; he was close, now, closer than he had ever been, to the dream that had taunted him for a lifetime. A tiny ball of possibility had lodged itself within his beautiful wife, and all that was left to them now was to wait, and to ponder. If, of course, Clarice had chosen to accept it.

"And have you decided, my darling?"

Clarice leaned back in his arms, then, looking up at him with eyes sharp and bright and utterly certain. In that moment, haloed by the setting sun, she had never looked more beautiful.

"I want to keep it," she said, and Hannibal smiled, and kissed her forehead.

"Good, then," he said.

In the days ahead there would be much more to say. There would be plans to make, preparations to undertake. In order to maintain both her privacy and her dignity Hannibal had been acting as Clarice's personal physician from the moment they set forth on this journey together, and he intended to continue on in that role now. He would examine her, and monitor her condition, would care for her and the child-to-be expertly, and with far more dedication than any other doctor in Buenos Aires could boast. They were his charges, now, and no harm would come to them while he drew breath. The world beyond their door was dark and full of monsters, but Hannibal was himself a monster more fearsome than any of them, and he would protect what was his.

"Sit, my darling," he said, running his hands along the slope of her back. "I'll bring the wine."

Clarice's face was soft and sad, but she did as he asked, and folded herself neatly into her customary chair at the table. Hannibal left her then, and as he walked his mind was racing.

There was much to be done.


	5. Chapter 5

_Three months later…_

All his life Hannibal Lector had possessed within him a deep appreciation for beautiful things, and so though the clock was ticking, though the appointed time for his departure was drawing near and he knew he could not afford to tarry, he lingered, soaking in the most beautiful sight in all the world.

Clarice, and naked, lying on her back beside him, sweat sparkling like diamonds scattered across her softly rounded breasts, her hair black as night and flowing round her head reminding him of nothing so much as the sea in darkness. She smelled of the sea, too, the salty sweet tang of their combined arousal smeared across them both, the air redolent with _them._ Her eyes were closed, her expression beatific in the aftermath of her recent pleasure, and as he lay stretched out on his side beside her Hannibal could see the gentle swell of her belly, growing slowly as their child grew slowly, nestled within the warmth and wet of her. The curvature was not particularly pronounced as yet, easily hidden beneath a flowing dress or a forgiving blouse, but it was undeniable when he saw her like this, he who knew her body so well. Idly he reached out, pressed his palm to that curve, felt the rushing of her blood beneath her veins. They had discovered the existence of the child at the beginning of December, and now they were celebrating Valentine's Day in their own way; Hannibal's calculations placed her at no more than four months gone. They had time, yet, to watch this little miracle unfolding. They had time, yet, to prepare for what was to come.

The heart, Hannibal knew, would be the first organ to develop, and the lungs would have followed after. Even now their child's heart was beating, buried there inside Clarice's body, another creature wholly separate from her, and yet wholly dependent on her, a fascinating dichotomy of need. He could not feel it, of course, the shape of the child or the beating of her heart, but he knew that she was there, just the same, cradled beneath the palm of his hand.

"You're awfully quiet," Clarice murmured into the stillness between them. Quiet was not unusual, for him or for her, particularly not when they fell together like this, sweaty and energetic and grasping until all their strength was spent, and neither was stillness; he often passed the time simply watching her, delighted by her and all her unexpected little glories. Strange, then, he thought, that she should comment on his silence; perhaps she could hear in the silence all the thoughts he had not yet spoken. He was not the only one to have made a study of his lover.

"I have an appointment," he confessed, his palm still resting against the bare skin of her stomach. "I should leave you now, but I confess I'm finding the prospect less appealing by the second."

He _had_ to leave; his purpose had been laid before him, a course of action chosen, and if he dallied here too long, and missed his opportunity, it would be weeks before the chance would present itself again. Chaos, again; his purpose this night would indelibly change the course of several lives, unless the beauty of his wife compelled him to remain in his bed rather than going out into the world as he intended. A woman's beauty had become a literal matter of life and death, and fate was to be decided not by his own calculating mind but by the beating of his heart and the desire of his flesh, and the warmth of her smile. A precious thing, then, the beauty of a woman.

"I don't want you to leave," she said, pouting, reaching out to run her hand over his hair gently, affectionately.

"No, I don't imagine that you do."

_But if I am to prepare a place for Mischa there are things that I must do, and this is first among them._

"I'll bring you back a treat," he told her, kissing the curve of her bare shoulder before at last he tore himself away from her side, rolled to his feet and went to dress himself. A black suit, Italian, neat, with a black tie, and a black pocket square, shiny black shoes and silver cuff links, a silver tie clip to match; he would look, he thought, like a man going to a funeral. How very apt.

"Facturas?" she asked, hopeful. She'd developed a taste for the little pastries, and her husband did take such pleasure in indulging her.

"It's a surprise," he told her, smiling. And it would be, he thought, quite a surprise indeed.

* * *

Hannibal was not opposed, as it were, to the display of affection among lovers; he had wooed his wife with gifts, understood well the importance of timing and occasion, and took pleasure in observing the rites of their romance, however unusual it might have been. Her birthday he marked with some pomp and delight, but Valentine's Day itself held no particular significance for him, or for his Clarice; they were not given much to bouts of sentiment. She felt his love of her in the touch of his hand against her skin, in the brush of his lips against her own, in the meals that he prepared for her, in the languid conversations they shared of an evening, and he much preferred reminding her of her revered place within his heart in moments that were unique to them both, and not only on the days when societal pressure dictated that he must. So then it had not wounded Clarice, to watch him leaving her alone on Valentine's Day; she had, in fact, been half asleep by the time he dressed and slipped from their room. Sated, perhaps, he had thought with a smile; he had left her with his love her painted across her pale thighs, and quite enjoyed the image of her lying stretched out on their bed, a goddess violated and ecstatic in her violation. A pleasant vision, to accompany him as he feet carried him away from their manse, and into the city, to a hard wooden pew in the back of a half-empty cathedral.

Though the Roman Catholic Church had removed Saint Valentine's feast from their calendar in the late 1960s his name still echoed round the globe, and it struck Hannibal as amusing, on this particular day, that while the Church had stepped away from him still people chose to celebrate the cause of love, and romance, with such enthusiasm. The Church, it seemed, did not have a monopoly on love. Would the homily this evening center on love? Hannibal asked himself, gazing round the cathedral at the half-formed faces of the congregation, gathered in that place to hear the words of the visiting Archbishop. Would the Archbishop speak of the dutiful wife, the steadfast husband, the unity of souls and the binding nature of the contract between them? It seemed to Hannibal a rather pedestrian choice, if that were the case.

Whatever the topic Hannibal would listen in rapt attention, rising and falling in time to the preordained calls of the service. It was only polite, to know what was expected of him in any given social situation, and the Church was no different; he would comport himself with dignity and draw no attention to himself. It would not do, to flub his lines or miss a step; he must be invisible tonight, and he had taken pains to ensure that he would be, in his plain suit, with his plainest shoes, sitting well back from the flickering lights of the sconces.

Despite the unexpected delay of his wife's allure he had arrived at the venue somewhat ahead of schedule, and so had a few moments simply to sit, and once more walk through the steps of the evening in his mind. Here he would sit, and there he would stand, and when the service was through he would depart through that door, and there he would wait, in silence, until the moment had come to fulfill his purpose.

The purpose that so consumed him this evening was not one of righteousness, nor one of caprice, was neither selfish nor malignant. It was instead practical; his efforts here this evening would be almost janitorial in nature. He had come to cleanse, and so prepare the way for the one who was to come. _As John the Baptist in the desert, so come I, to prepare a path for the one who would follow after me._ A merry thought.

It was quite simple. Mischa had been taken from him once, by the forces of war and the selfish needs of man, by men who should have protected the weak, and yet preyed upon them. Now that he believed the time had come for her return to the world he thought it prudent to do his part to remove such men from her path. In a world of his own making, where every moment unfolded according to his own desires and his own well-laid plans, Hannibal would remain with Mischa for every moment of her life, from her birth through her formative years, guiding her, protecting her, shaping her, until she was at last strong enough to face the world on her own. Such grace was not guaranteed to him, however. It was not impossible that he might be taken from her; a careless driver, an earthquake, fire, famine, flood, perhaps his own hubris laying him low and seeing him returned to America in chains. He would do whatever he could to protect her, but in the event he was taken from her, the world must be made safe for her.

And so he had sat down one evening while Clarice slept, and stared into the gloom, and asked himself what would be the greatest threats to his child, to Mischa, should he no longer be able to protect her. Drawing on the knowledge he had gleaned during the course of his residency in this particular corner of the world he had compiled a list within his mind. Politicians who championed causes that placed undue burdens on widows and orphans, clergymen whose houses of refuge were places of grief rather than security, saber-rattling generals baying for blood, a policeman or two, Ardelia Mapp, the only person remaining besides Hannibal himself who knew Clarice Starling well. He had studied those names in the vaults of his mind, pondered their habits and localities, and tried to determine the means by which he might eliminate them, and secure a more comfortable future for Mischa. Some would prove more difficult to reach than others, and so he had resigned himself to starting small, as it were.

Starting here, starting now, with an Archbishop who was reputed to be a pedophile. The Archbishop had made the orphans of Buenos Aires his cause du juor, but rumors of his behavior had reached the ears of the Dottore, and vengeance was coming for him. It might have suited the Church to sweep the Archbishop's misdeeds beneath the rug, to purchase the silence of the press and the leniency of the authorities, but they could not hide him from Hannibal.

 _I shall be as an avenging angel,_ he thought to himself, smiling. A blasphemous thought to have in a church, no doubt, but no lightning came to strike him for his momentary whimsy. He was no more angel than he was devil, no more divinely appointed than he was possessed by evil. He was simply a man who loved his child; were not all fathers the same?

Somewhere a chorister had begun to sing, and Hannibal turned his attention to the altar. The niceties must be observed; he would hear the word of the Lord, and then unleash his own retribution upon the gravest of sinners.


	6. Chapter 6

When Clarice woke the next morning she was startled to find herself alone. From the very first she and her husband had maintained their own private quarters upstairs, rooms they could retreat to when the need for solitude and quiet was stronger than their need for one another, but it had been quite some time since last she passed a whole night without Hannibal. They had begun to crave one another, and his bouts of isolation were rare, these days.

She understood why he withdrew, sometimes. From the moment they left the Chesapeake house she had suffered under no delusions about the character of the man she'd tied herself to, about the choice that she had made. The day she chose to leave her life behind in favor of a new journey with him was the day she chose to accept him, all of him, precisely as he was. A man who had killed, who took pleasure in the killing, who made beauty from violence, whose heart was so unlike any she had ever before encountered, a heart not made for love, or at least not for the sort of love portrayed in Hollywood films or old country songs. There was tenderness in that heart, and wonder, and wanting, but there was danger, too. She knew this, and so she did not try to control him, to shape him, to change him; she sought only to know him, and to share with him, of him, and of herself. Clarice did not worry, when her husband found solace in solitude. The labyrinthine passages of his mind contained more riddles and mysteries than she could ever hope to unravel herself, and if he sometimes needed to unpick those mysteries on his own, she knew it was not a condemnation of her abilities. He respected her, cherished her, adored her, and she knew it well. Besides, there had been many nights in the first year of their new life together when she sought the sanctuary of her own bed, her own quiet thoughts, without the warmth of him at her back, without the endless mercurial churning of his mind so close to her she could almost hear it; she knew what it was, to long for peace.

Clarice did not worry about her husband returning to his old ways; the life that they had made here was a pleasant one, and one he had told her that he wished to maintain. To maintain such a life would require restraint, on his part. He had been captured once before, and learned the difficult lesson of his own fallibility while he languished in his dank cell in Baltimore. The inspector in Italy had discovered his true identity, and Mason Verger had very nearly been the end of him. Clarice herself had tracked him quite neatly, and she was not so arrogant as to believe that no one else would ever be clever enough to do the same. They had taken pains between them to adjust his habits, to cover his tracks, but a sudden spate of murders could undo all their careful work, and Hannibal knew it.

Clarice did not worry about her husband giving in to reckless impulses. Hannibal was a clever man, and he always weighed his desires meticulously. The pleasure of eliminating some troublesome acquaintance - the offensive police detective who had come sniffing around when they first arrived in Buenos Aires, or the Countess Dufrense, with her insufferable laugh, for example - did not hold a candle to the pleasure of their comfortable life in this place. Now that they were wed, now that they were expecting a child, now that they had established themselves in a respectable social circle and found satisfaction in their lives together, Hannibal had no need for other, more dangerous pursuits. Older now than he had been when he was first captured in Baltimore, wiser, and with more reason to maintain a low profile, Hannibal had, to her mind, outgrown his previous predilections. It was, she thought, a retirement of sorts, and a well-earned one at that.

Clarice did not worry about her husband, usually, but as she stretched, cold and alone in the bed they shared more often than not, she found herself, if not worrying, questioning, at least, what might have taken him from her side. The night before he had been amorous and attentive, left her sweaty and sticky and satisfied, and given no sign of the melancholy that often drove him to retreat. What he had done, however, was announce that he had an appointment, without warning or explanation. She had been sleepy and sated the night before, and had not questioned him, but now she did. Now she questioned; where had he gone, and why had he kept it a secret from her? Clarice was not in the habit of demanding an accounting from her husband; they were, both of them, free to go where they wished, when they wished, with no need to ask permission or forgiveness. There was no need for her to question him, when most of the time he told her anyway, trusted her with the details of his life, the secrets of his heart.

But he had not told her yesterday, had not told her where he was going or why, and he had not returned to her. Though she had long since shed most of the habits of her previous life with the FBI some fears, once known, could not be forgotten. A life could be lost in a hundred different ways, a thousand, one small choice steamrolling into a dozen disasters. Always before she had been able to put such fears aside, knowing that he had provided for her material needs, knowing that if she found herself suddenly without him she could carry on in this life they had built together, but now those fears had returned with a vengeance, brought on by the knowledge that she was no longer alone. Even now, cradled beneath the warm swell of her belly, a new life was growing, a life for which she would assume full responsibility, if Hannibal were lost. How was she to raise a child on her own, without him? To raise, not just any child, but a child who was to inherit the legacy of his father, the last living piece of Hannibal Lecter, without Hannibal's influence? They were meant to do this _together,_ and she could not stomach the thought of doing it alone.

 _You're being irrational,_ she told herself sternly. There was no reason to believe that Hannibal had not survived his journey into the city the night before. It was just as likely that he had returned late, and chosen to sleep apart from her so that she would not be disturbed by his arrival. Whatever else he was, Hannibal had always been a courteous man.

 _He's in his room just down the hall,_ she told herself, slipping out of bed. _You'll see._

Clarice had fallen asleep naked, decadently mussed and luxuriating in the slide of silk sheets against her skin, and so she paused by the doorway, and slipped into her favorite grey silk robe. The robe was a gift from Hannibal, as was every beautiful thing in her life, lavish and understated, but it did not warm her as she padded quietly out of the room and down the corridor, seeking the suite where he sometimes passed his nights alone. The house was all in silence, but she had expected nothing less; the servants knew better than to venture upstairs before noon. This was La Bella and Dottore's private domain, and trespassers were not met with kindness.

When she reached the heavy door to his suite she did not pause; she flung the door wide, and strode with all due haste into his private parlor. February was summer in Buenos Aires, and so no fire had been laid, the marble fireplace instead cold and lifeless. The bookshelves were kept in perfect order, his desktop cleared of all paperwork; he was a fastidious sort, her husband. His absence in the parlor alarmed her, but no more than his absence from her bed; it was early, still, and he might well have been sleeping. Undeterred, then, she marched to the bedroom, and once more threw open the door.

No Hannibal. The bed was still neatly made, giving no sign that he had passed the night there.

NowClarice was worried.

As quickly as she could she rushed from the room, and made her way downstairs in her bare feet, her hand drifting subconsciously to the soft swell of her belly. She was not so very far along, not yet, and so the changes in her shape were not so very dramatic, but she knew, as Hannibal knew, that their child was growing within her, and she had made a promise to that child, to shelter him, to keep him safe. How was she to protect him from this? The time for saving Hannibal, for stopping him before he made some reckless, calamitous decision, had already come and gone. There was nothing for her to do, now; the choices had been made, and already spiraled out of her control. If her husband were doomed, she was in no position to save him. It had been quite some time, since last she felt so helpless, and her stomach churned with grief, and with rage. They had endured so much already, she thought, had suffered their fair share of loss and pain, and she had hoped, before now, that such troubles were behind them. Now she felt trouble closing in on her, and she could see no escape. Of course, there was every possibility that nothing had happened at all, that her fears were unfounded, but she had learned of loss, and the unpredictability of life, from an early age, and the shadows of trauma were too long for her to outgrow them. Having lost her own father as a child, she knew how easily the fragile bonds of life could be shattered, and she feared the rending.

Clarice burst through the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, and made her way at once to the small corner of the house where she and Hannibal most often took their breakfast. It was no more than an hour since dawn, and they were both habitually early risers; if he were not in bed, than she supposed it stood to reason that he had gone in search of his morning meal. A cup of fine Turkish coffee, a pastry or two, the morning's newspaper; he indulged in such things each day, though he usually preferred to do so in her company. It would be strange, she thought, for him to take his breakfast alone, but she would prefer _strange_ to _tragic,_ on this particular morning.

As she rushed through the house the servants melted from her path, perhaps sensing the potential for disaster that hung in the air; the _Señora_ was not in the habit of storming through the lower levels naked but for her robe, and certainly not without the company of the _Señor._ Perhaps they, too, had noticed his absence. Perhaps they, too, were worried.

Clarice emerged into the breakfast nook and very nearly wept with relief, for there he was, Hannibal, sitting at the table in a neat grey suit, looking for all the world as if nothing were amiss. The morning's paper was spread across the table in front of him, and he held a small china cup in his hand, still steaming with the first of the morning's coffee. As she burst into the room he looked up, momentarily alarmed, but his face softened as he caught sight of her.

"Good morning, my darling," he said mildly.

For a moment Clarice was silent; she didn't know whether she wanted to weep from sheer relief, to scold him for frightening her, or to retreat and nurse her wounded pride in secret. Her worries had been for naught; Hannibal was _here_ , and well, had done nothing untoward or dangerous. Though she wanted, very much, to know where he had gone, though she wanted to tell him of the terrible fear that had gripped her, to tell him how the impending arrival of their child had already begun to change her mind in ways she had never expected, in the moment what she needed most was only to be with him. To hear his voice, to feel his hands on her skin, to know that he was with her, still, and would be for a good long while yet. No more than five minutes had passed, from when she woke alone until now, but she had traveled through a lifetime's worth of grief, thinking of their child growing without him, thinking of how her heart would shatter, if Hannibal were taken from her now.

And so she did not speak, did not question him or herself. She only went to him, and settled herself down at once upon his lap. Clarice wound her arms around him, pressed her nose to the tender skin of his neck, felt the distress of the morning receding as his own arms encircled her, as his palm rubbed gently against her hip.

"What's this, then?" he asked her softly. There was neither accusation nor mockery in his tone; they had been together long enough, and knew one another well enough, for him to recognize when she was troubled, and he always sought to soothe her, when he could.

"I don't like sleeping without you," she whispered against his neck.

"Then I shall be certain that you don't, ever again." He punctuated his promise with a kiss against the crown of her head, and Clarice melted in his embrace, let the warmth of him soak through her, and wash away all that had come before. For a time she simply rested, curled against him, but eventually the baser needs of her body asserted themselves and she was forced to leave him in favor of a quick trip to the loo. When she returned a beautiful breakfast was waiting for her, and her husband was waiting for her, and so distracted was she by the strangeness of the morning that she never noticed the newspaper had, somehow, disappeared.

If she had seen that newspaper, if she had taken a moment to peruse the most sensational of the morning's headlines, she would have seen - in Spanish, of course - the words _Bishop Slain in Bloody Valentine's Attack,_ and she would have looked at her husband, and as she did the seed of doubt that had been planted when she first woke would continue to grow unchecked, a terrible, choking vine.


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal Lecter would never dream of doing anything so crass or immature as lie to his wife. Lying about his activities might indicate some sense of guilt, if not remorse, could only be born of some sort of shame, and Hannibal felt neither shame, nor guilt, nor remorse for the murder of the Archbishop. In point of fact, he did not even think of it as murder; he had been, in essence, taking out the trash, helping to make sure that all would be neat, and right, when Mischa at long last returned to the world. He did not _lie_ to Clarice, not about this, or anything else; if she had asked him, he would have given her the truth of it, every bit. As it was, however, Clarice did not pay much attention to the headlines - at breakfasttime it was always Hannibal who read the paper, and Clarice who watched him fondly while he did - and so she did not raise the subject of the bishop with him. Given her lack of interest, he did not speak on the matter. There was more work for him to do, and he rather thought it best that Clarice did not learn of his plot until he accomplished his ultimate goals. There was still time for things to go wrong, after all, and so long as he kept his own counsel, Clarice would be protected by her ignorance.

Provided, of course, that she did not ask him. Nearly a week had passed, since the murder of the bishop, and their lives had carried on without any interruption whatsoever. Hannibal had very nearly forgotten the matter of the bishop, so caught up was he in the plans for his next evening out, but fate was against him, and Clarice did not remain in ignorance indefinitely.

It was, of all people, the bloody Countess Dufrense who drew Clarice's attention to the sensational murder gripping the populace of Buenos Aires outside their comfortable manse.

It was a fine warm day, summer, in that part of the world, and La Bella and Dottore had gathered together a small group of friends - the Countess, Richard DeBurges, and a couple who styled themselves Lord and Lady Hartnell, though what they were Lord and Lady _of_ remained unknown and a matter of much speculation - for a luncheon on the terrace. Such luncheons were more common than their celebrated dinner parties, for La Bella and Dottore did so enjoy company; the presence of others served to liven up the serenity of their daily life, and allowed them both an opportunity to play a delightful game of deception and risk, unbeknownst to the other players. If Lilibet or Richard or indeed the Hartnells had any notion of who they were dining with, what they might perhaps be dining _on,_ their faces would have paled and they would have run screaming from the room, all memory of their delightful, hard-won acquaintance suddenly forgotten in favor of selfish, petty fear for their own pitiful lives. As if any of them were of significant consequence to tempt Hannibal into recidivism; the very thought was droll to him. No, their guests could not conceive the true nature of La Bella and Dottore, but the risk of discovery remained, always, a delicious _apéritif_ of adrenaline that always served to whet the Dottore's appetite for the meal, and for his wife, though she was a dessert best enjoyed in private.

On this particular occasion they were sipping cocktails on the terrace, picking at their _picada,_ laid tastefully on a heavy wooden tray with smooth marble handles. If any of the guests noticed that La Bella was drinking fresh squeezed orange juice without a hint of liquor to color it, or that her lightweight dress was rather more loose-fitted than was her usual taste, they were too polite to comment. Lilibet, however, was _not_ too polite to bring up the matter of murder over plates of cheese and olives.

"Isn't it just awful," she said, sighing in a graceless imitation of distress, "about that poor bishop?"

The Hartnells hummed in agreement, and Richard barked out a laugh, while the Dottore himself only went very still, listening closely. The game was, once more, afoot.

" _Poor bishop,_ indeed," Richard scoffed. "The orphans of Buenos Aires are sleeping more easily now than they have ever done before."

"What about the bishop?" La Bella asked, curious and not at all chagrined at finding herself out of the loop, as it were. It was not her custom to concern herself with the goings on of the high and mighty in their fine city, and her guests took great pleasure in sharing the latest gossip with her.

"Oh, haven't you heard?" the Countess crowed. "It's just awful. The Archbishop was murdered after a mass last week."

"Valentine's Day, it was," Lord Hartnell volunteered. He spoke in a pale imitation of a posh British accent that was not sufficient to cover the Irish brogue which slipped and slid past his teeth on each of his vowels.

"How terrible," La Bella said, and though her tone and expression were sufficiently shocked, given the indecent nature of the information just revealed to her, her eyes were sparkling with a mirth her husband recognized well. Even she had heard the rumors about the Archbishop. "Was it a mugging?"

"I can't believe you haven't heard about this, the whole city's buzzing," Richard told her. As he spoke he lit a cigarette, and his hostess wrinkled her nose in disgust. She had never much cared for the smell of cigarette smoke, but of late it had begun to turn her stomach.

"Richard, if you please," Dottore said to him quietly, and Richard stubbed out the cigarette at once, respectful of his host.

"Killed in the cathedral," Richard explained. "His driver called the police when he didn't turn up after mass, and they tore the cathedral apart before they found him. Naked, lashed to a crucifix they use for the Passion at Easter in some dingy back cupboard. Upside down, I heard."

"That sends a message, doesn't it?" Lord Hartnell said.

"It does indeed," La Bella agreed, but she was not looking at Lord Hartnell; she was looking at Hannibal, and in her eyes he saw that she had, already, begun to suspect him. That wounded him somewhat. Of course, he _was_ responsible for the death of the Archbishop, and would not deny it if she asked him for the truth, but that she had, with so little information, immediately come to the conclusion that he might be responsible, despite the fact that he had assured her he intended to keep his nose clean, as it were, spoke of a certain degree of mistrust he had not previously thought she possessed with regard to him. Then again, she was a clever sort, and no doubt recalled that it was Valentine's night when he had been so conspicuously absent from their bed, and that, combined with the theatricality of the murder, ought to have been more than enough to rouse the clever, investigative mind of any former FBI agent.

"I heard he was _flayed,"_ Lilibet said, with some relish. Dottore laughed, just a little; ostensibly at her apparent glee, but in actuality because he knew nothing of the sort had been done to the Archbishop. It was a fine idea, but there simply had not been enough time.

"I heard he had his - forgive me, La Bella - his manhood cut off, and stuffed down his throat," Richard said.

"I heard his heart was ripped out. And his lung," this from Lady Hartnell.

"Goodness," La Bella said evenly. "Someone must have been very angry with the bishop, to do something like that."

"Perhaps it was not anger," Dottore suggested. All eyes turned his way, and he smiled at them indulgently as he sipped at his drink. Every now and then, it was quite nice to be the center of attention, and tension crackled deliciously down his spine. This game was even more fun than their usual back and forth, he thought, for this time he was playing against Clarice, as well, rather than with her. She had her suspicions, and would be looking to him to confirm them. How much dare he say? Should he find the words to reveal the truth to Clarice, without divulging the intimate details that might give rise to suspicion in their guests? Should he instead continue to hedge, offering her sufficient reason to doubt her own doubts, to question the conclusions her own mind had drawn? How far might he be permitted to go, just now?

In the end he chose marital harmony over the momentary fun of toying with Clarice further. He respected her too much to torment her, particularly now, when she carried such a delicate burden, and could so easily walk away from him, taking that which had become most precious to him with her.

"Perhaps the murderer was not an angry, violent killer but more a judge and jury. The crimes of the Archbishop are well known, but he had not previously been called to answer for them. Perhaps this is no more than a just punishment. Lashed to the cross upside down, as punishment for his betrayal of his faith. His member removed, for it was the piece of him that had done the most damage. Forced down his throat, so that he might understand the plight of his victims."

"Why the flaying, then?" Richard asked, eagerly, while La Bella watched her husband, hardly moving. To their guests she did not appear in any way disturbed or distressed by her husband's supposition, but Hannibal knew her well, and in her eyes he saw the truth. She had heard him; she understood.

"And the removal of the organs?" Richard pressed, while still Hannibal's eyes lingered on his wife.

"Even the most resolute of judges may fall victim to his own flights of fancy," Hannibal said. "Perhaps he simply wanted to take them."

* * *

The luncheon lasted well into the afternoon; La Bella and Dottore were gracious, as ever, their conversation much enjoyed by the guests, and the host and hostess saw their friends to the door, waved them off with handshakes and cheek kisses and promises to meet up again soon. The moment the door closed behind them, however, all trace of genial hospitality left La Bella's face. She was La Bella no more; Hannibal saw it happen, watched the change in her posture and expression as Clarice, trembling with barely suppressed rage, came swimming back to the surface. He thought, for a moment, that she meant to have it out with him right then and there, but the servants will still underfoot, clearing away the last of their meal, and she did nothing of the sort. Instead she turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs.

Hannibal rubbed at his temple for a moment, thinking. The matter must be addressed; he could not leave her to simmer in her rage, could not risk her deciding that a life without him was preferable to the risk he presented to her freedom. Perhaps he had been foolish, to keep this thing from her. Foolishness was not in his nature, but he could allow that at times he could be blinded by his own ambitions. It seemed this was one of those times.

So he took off after her, and found her in their bedroom. Already she had slipped out of her dress, tossed it negligently aside. Her hands were busy with her earrings, removing them and flinging them down upon her dressing table while she paced, agitatedly, in just her underthings. As important as it was that they speak to one another Hannibal could not help but spare a moment for the beauty of her, the swells of her breasts straining against the black lace of her bra, the slight curve of her belly above the matching black lace of her knickers, the paleness of her skin, the artful tumble of her dark curls, the fire of her eyes. What a magnificent creature she was, especially now, when her ire was up and she was spoiling for a fight.

"What the _fuck_ were you thinking?" she demanded as he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. For all the hard work the Lutherans had done in civilizing her the West Virginia came out of her when she was cross, and now was no exception.

"You promised me-"

"I made no such promise," Hannibal said mildly.

Clarice whirled round to face him, the color high in her cheeks.

"You told me our life here was too important for you to risk it on...distractions," she said, pronouncing that last word distastefully. It made for an apt euphemism, Hannibal thought. The Archbishop had been no more than a distraction, and now that he had been dealt with Hannibal could focus on the matter at hand.

"And you go and do this _now?_ " she added viciously, as if he needed reminding of her delicate condition, and the delicate predicament they found themselves in.

"It had to be now," Hannibal countered, and as he spoke he crossed the room, caught her elbow in his arm, trying to draw her close. Clarice was having none of it, and wrenched herself from his grip. Somehow, impossibly, she was even more beautiful up close, her chest heaving, and he found himself wondering whether, beneath her anger, a part of her recognized her vulnerability. A small, pregnant woman, all but naked, alone with a known killer, a killer whose work she had surveyed with her own two eyes. With teeth and hands he could have rent her to pieces, then, and consumed her, for he had desired, always, to carry a piece of Clarice within his flesh. Could have, but never would have done; they had come too far together, and he treasured her life too greatly to risk it even for that most exquisite sacrilege.

"What sort of world will our child know?" he asked her, with some heat, leaning in close enough for her to feel the wash of his breath against her cheek. "What life will we bequeath to her? One of wretchedness, and horror? You want her safe, and so do I."

"The Archbishop -"

"Was of no consequence so long as we both live," Hannibal allowed. "But life is chaos. I intend to be prepared for all eventualities. And now, no matter what becomes of us, he will pose no threat to her."

For a moment Clarice studied him, her eyes wide and seeking, searching his face for some sign of deception. She would find none, he knew, for he had told her the truth. But would the truth reassure her, or cause her to flee? How much damage had he caused, in revealing his motives to her?

"You can't kill every pedophile priest in the world, Hannibal," she said to him, softly, and he knew then that he had won. She understood him, and she would not make him suffer for this crime.

"I've made a start," he told her, eyes gleaming.

And then, before she could protest, before she could question him further, before she could attempt to draw from his lips a promise that he was not willing to make, Hannibal reached for her. His hands found her hips, tugged her hard against him; she stumbled, lost her balance, and fell into his chest, and as she did his lips descended upon hers in a frenzied, needful kiss. The moment's hesitation before she opened her mouth to him tasted of fear and doubt, and he drank it in like wine, drunk on his power and her capitulation. Only for a moment, though, for in the next breath she had recovered herself, and returned his kiss with a vengeance, her teeth catching against his lips as her fingernails raked sharply down the tender skin at the nape of his neck. In a whirl of flesh and heated groans they fell together, clawing at one another until they were bare, and joined, and gasping, rocking together, two hearts winding in and around one another until there was no telling one from the other.


	8. Chapter 8

"We're getting desperate, Matteo," Santiago told him despairingly as they stood together in the cramped office they had converted into command central for the investigation into the murder of the Bishop. "We have no leads."

"None at all?" Matteo pressed him. It was his first day on the investigation; he'd been on holiday with his wife when the Bishop was murdered, and had only come home at the urging of his boss, insisting that every detective in the department would be needed on such a high profile case.

"Well," Santiago shifted uneasily on his feet, running his hands over his dark, curly hair. He had hair any woman would envy, but PFA regulations required him to keep it short; a tragedy, Matteo thought. "There have always been rumors about the Bishop. Maybe it's a family member of a victim, or one of his victims grew up and decided to take revenge."

Matteo sighed and heaved himself up from behind the desk where he'd been pouring over reports and made his way over to the wall they'd covered in photographs from the Bishop's autopsy. It made for unpleasant viewing.

"I don't really want to spend the next month interviewing orphans who were abused by a priest. Do you?"

It was the worst-kept secret in Buenos Aires, the Bishop's predilection for preying on the weak and vulnerable. Most of the victims were too young to understand what had happened to them at the time, and too ashamed to admit to it when they grew up, and so the Bishop's sins never amounted to more than whispers, and the Church held him tight to its bosom, allowing not hint of reprisal to visit him there. Until now.

"I don't think that's the right place to start looking, anyway," Matteo added.

Matteo had given up smoking six weeks before, and so he did not reach for a cigarette, as he dearly longed to do. Instead he plucked a toothpick from the breast pocket of his shirt, and caught it between his teeth as he studied the photographs. There, the Bishop _in situ_ , just as he had been found by the police and his driver on Valentine's Day. There, carefully framed snaps of each of his wounds, accompanied by words written in Santiago's own scrawling hand, explaining the nature and possible causes of said wounds. There, the image of the blood stained cross the Bishop had been lashed to.

"Whoever he is, he's done this before," Matteo mused, mostly to himself.

"We've never seen anything like this in Buenos Aires," Santiago protested. Such objection was vital to their work; every suggestion must be met with opposition, so that it could be examined from all sides. They would take nothing for granted.

"He must have been very quick, to catch the Bishop off guard without anyone seeing. He must also be immensely strong, to lash the Bishop to the cross and then raise it. The Bishop was not a small man."

The Bishop had in fact been a fat man, grown lazy and satisfied on the charity of others. Matteo would not miss him; he doubted anyone in Buenos Aires would.

"And look at this," Matteo continued, stepping closer to the photographs. "If this is one of his victims, someone who sought to kill the Bishop specifically, he would not have killed before - why would he, if the Bishop is his goal? - and if he _has_ not killed before we would expect the killer to be anxious. It is not an easy thing, to slice the flesh of a man, to feel his blood spray across your face. The carotid was severed, but look here - see how clean that cut is? How smooth? He did not have time to drug his victim, and there are no injuries to the head that suggest the victim was rendered unconscious. To do this swiftly, neatly, with a steady hand, I think this requires practice. The Bishop may have screamed, before he was cut, and he almost certainly would have struggled. But this cut is...precise."

"And here," Matteo mused, moving on to the other photographs. "He took trophies, you see? But why these? The tongue, the liver, the heart…"

"And the penis," Santiago pointed out.

Matteo waved him away. "That I think was done for show, more than anything else. An outrage, as the staging of the body was designed to cause outrage. Our killer wanted to make a scene. He must have been very confident that this would not be traced back to him."

"Considering we have no witnesses and no physical evidence, I'd say he was right about that," Santiago grumbled.

It was a little unnerving, actually. The skill, the planning, the cold, implacable disposition this murder must have required was unlike anything else Matteo had ever seen before.

"The tongue, the liver, the heart," Matteo murmured under his breath. The killer would not have had much time to commit his atrocities; no more than a half hour after the mass had ended the Bishop's driver had begun to search for him, and the police had been called an hour after that. Not long at all, to kill a man, string him up, clean up all traces of himself, and then vanish. Why take the time to carve out trophies, to carry the evidence of his transgressions on his person? What sort of man could do such a thing in a _church,_ and walk out with his pockets stuffed full of organs, and feel no fear?

That was one thing Matteo knew for a certainty; this killer, whoever he might have been, was not afraid. No God-fearing man could have done such a thing on holy ground, and no man who feared the police would have taken so great a risk. This killer knew what he was capable of, and carried off his plan with almost beautiful precision.

"Precision," Matteo murmured to himself.

"The heart, the liver, they can be sold on the black market," Santiago offered, but his tone was not optimistic; he did not believe that himself. There was not a booming market for human tongues.

"If they wanted the organs they wouldn't have wasted their time with the rest of this display."

_Precision. Who else cuts so precisely? A tailor, or a doctor. The tongue, the liver, the heart. Not for sale. Neatly removed. Carotid severed in one long, smooth stroke. Who would be capable of such a thing?_

"A doctor," Matteo said.

* * *

Hannibal had retreated to his mind palace. He sat alone on the balcony in the warmth of the afternoon sun, his face upturned to that bright blaze, his eyes closed, his thoughts far away. Today he was not walking through the old world elegance of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence, nor was he strolling among the galleries of the Louvre. Instead today he lingered on the grounds of his ancestral home, watching Mischa in a copper tub beneath a sun that was not quite so warm as the one that currently shone down upon his face in Buenos Aires. He could see it, smell it, feel it, as strongly now as he had done on that day, the dog beside him, the cabbages, the aubergines that seemed to bleed their own color into the pale blue eyes of that little girl who so loved to see them beneath the brilliant light of the sun. Her star-shaped hands, gentle upon his face.

 _Soon,_ a voice whispered through the vaults of his mind palace, a voice that was not his own, but belonged instead to Clarice. It was her voice he heard when he closed his eyes, now and always.

 _Soon._ A word like a heartbeat, pulsing beneath his skin, a word that drove him ever onward, closer and closer to his ultimate goal. It had been his dearest wish, his only wish, for so very long, to return Mischa to the world, and it was only the miraculous intervention of Clarice Starling and her unbendable will that convinced him to set it aside. Clarice's life, her experiences, her beliefs, were too deeply ingrained upon her mind to so easily be wiped away, and he had found that he did not want to, in any case, that she was herself too fascinating to be removed from the world. Now, though, now it seemed he was to be rewarded for his willingness to preserve her singularity by a new opportunity for Mischa's resurgence. This child, now, unformed as yet, not blessed with consciousness, not yet forged by the crucible of birth; this child was a tabula rasa, unmarked, her fate undecided, and it would be, he thought, far easier to bring Mischa forth from this babe than to overwrite Clarice's mind. It seemed to him especially fitting that this child would share his blood, as Mischa had done. It seemed, he thought, as if everything had fallen into place.

 _She will be the key,_ Clarice's voice whispered in his mind.

"Hannibal?" her voice called, not tinged with the sweetness of memory but bright and sharp and present. He lowered his chin and slowly opened his eyes, and found her framed within the open doorway leading from the upper parlor out on to the balcony. In deference to the heat she wore a light-weigh sundress, gathered tightly round her breasts and flowing out from there to cover the gentle roundness of her belly. When she moved the fabric swayed, the lines and curves of her ever-shifting, hiding their mysteries from him now, though they would not hide for long. He would see her, touch her, every inch, every pore, when they lay down together for the evening, and he would chart the changes in her physical form with reverent appreciation.

Now he held his hand out to her, Apollo entreating Daphne; would she accept him, whose form was the antithesis of all that she had previously held dear, or would she spurn him, having grown weary of the chase, and turn her heart against him for sake of the crimes he had committed?

She came; he had not doubted, not truly. She always did.

Slowly Clarice crossed the balcony, and took the hand he offered her, winding their fingers together.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him softly, and it did not escape his notice that there was worry in her gaze. It was a question she asked him often, and which he always answered honestly. Trust was a cornerstone of their relationship; if he did not trust her, how then could he love her? And if she did not love him, how then could he expect her to stay? And if she left him now she would take their child and his dreams of Mischa with her; no, she must stay. To keep her he would continue to woo her as he had done from the moment that they met, to offer her the truth of his heart, the most vulnerable pieces of himself, for her to consume in her own brilliant light, to receive her in turn. An ouroboros of the strangest, most magnificent sort.

"I'm thinking of many things," he told her. "Sunlight, and aubergines."

"Mischa," she said. A clever bird, his starling. She always had been. A deep roller, too.

"Yes," he conceded.

He had not told her his plan, as yet. That was not to say he meant to keep his aims a secret from her forever; he would need her assistance, once the child entered the world, for the fierce, determined love of a mother was the only force he could imagine capable of waylaying his plans, and Clarice, he knew, would be fiercer than most. If approached in the right way, he was confident she could come to accept his proposal. But not now, not yet; the trials of her own youth, the lessons of the ranch and the Lutherans, her work with the FBI and the subsequent conflagration of her career had instilled in her a ferocious sort of independence, and if not given time to slowly adjust to the idea he was certain she would balk, believing that the child's nature was its own, extant from the moment it first began to take shape within her womb, and she would not hear of erasing the new spirit they had created between themselves. In time, her mind would change - it often did, when presented with morsels of reasonable evidence, a trail of breadcrumbs leading her, carefully, round to his way of thinking - but he would not begin that work now.

"I think of her often, when it's warm," he explained, and Clarice relaxed, infinitesimally.

"Your love of her is a tender thing," she said, and he looked at her strangely, surprised by the sentiment. It had always seemed to him that his love of Mischa was sharp, knives against his skin, shaving away the pieces of the boy he could have been and sculpting the man he had become, but now he considered her words, and found some truth in them. It was tender, as a wound is tender, painful to the touch but something enticing about the pain, calling one's fingers back to a bruise again and again, memorizing its shape and sensation.

"It makes me love you more," she added, and then she leaned down to brush a kiss against his brow, affording him the pleasant view of her cleavage in the process.

She loved him, and loved him more for his having loved, and never forgotten it. A wonderful, terrible thing, he thought then, the heart of a woman. It was not enough for him to love her; she required it of him that he love another, as well, as if she needed proof that his heart was capable of love, that his feelings for her were true, and not some farce he played at for his own selfish reasons.

"Jack Crawford would never have believed it," she told him then, "but you will be a wonderful father. The way you cared for Mischa, the way you tried to protect her, the way you've never forgotten her...it will be the same for this little one, won't it?"

Her words troubled him a very great deal for a variety of reasons. Firstly, that Jack Crawford's name had left her lips; she'd not spoken of him in over a year. And why should she, speak of him, think of him at all, when Clarice Starling was no more, when that chapter of their lives was closed, never again to be reopened? And then there was the question she had asked of him, and the doubt that lingered in her eyes. _You will be a wonderful father,_ she'd said, a statement of fact, and yet she had undermined it with her own uncertainty. Did she fear she had made an error, consenting to raise a child with such a man as him? Did she fear what he might do in the future?

"It will," he told her firmly, for it was the truth. It would be the same with this child as it was with Mischa, his love of her, his care for her; it would be the same because _she_ would be the same, Mischa come again.

Clarice smiled at him, her teeth flashing white in the sunlight, and then settled into the chair beside him, content.


	9. Chapter 9

Five weeks had passed since the sensational murder of the Archbishop, but though tongues wagged and the devout clutched their rosaries and his accomplices in positions of authority viewed every stranger with open mistrust, the police were no closer to finding the perpetrator than they had been on the day of the murder, and life in Buenos Aires went on. It was late March, now, the autumn season officially begun, and the best and brightest of Argentine society gathered together in the palatial manse of the _Jefe de Gobierno_ for a ball to celebrate the ending of summer, and to bolster the _Jefe's_ dwindling coffers with an influx of charitable donations from like-minded people.

Of course La Bella and the Dottore had been invited, and society was abuzz with the news that they had accepted; they were selective when it came to social engagements, and did not often dally with the political class, though their wealth and reputation made them enviable companions. _It shall be a night to remember,_ those monied folks whispered to themselves, and of course it would be, just not for the reasons they expected.

"Oh, but you're positively glowing," Lady Hartnell gushed. Lord Hartnell was off bending the ear of some bored-looking diplomat, and Dottore had gone in search of drinks - a whiskey neat, for him, and a tonic with lime, for her. Dottore's child apparently did not share his father's fondness for drink, and alcohol made La Bella's life a misery.

"We're very pleased," La Bella allowed, smiling softly. Though the silk gown she wore - a deep aubergine in color, for La Bella knew how best to delight her husband - was cut to emphasize the swell of her breast and hide the swell of her belly it had grown impossible to keep the news of her pregnancy a secret any longer. At nearly five months gone she was no longer as lean as she had been, once, and her distaste for cigarettes and avoidance of alcohol had planted a good many suspicions in her friends' minds. She had announced the news to Lillibet, and the Countess had done the rest, and now anyone who mattered in Buenos Aires was aware that the city's most elegant couple would soon be welcoming a child of their very own.

"I'm sure you've already sorted it out for yourself," Lady Hartnell said, "but if you're in need of a good doctor, mine's the best. I would be happy to give you his information."

No doubt she would be quite happy to do so indeed; it would be a boon to her, knowing that she had provided this service to La Bella. She would be able to whisper about it knowingly, at parties just like this one; _poor lamb,_ she would say, _she hardly knew what to do with herself. Of course I knew the perfect gentleman for the job, and she's blooming beautifully now._

"Oh, I already have the best," La Bella answered. The timing could have not been better; Dottore had just arrived with their drinks, and he slid her glass smoothly into her hand before winding his arm around her waist. "He takes such excellent care of me."

"Do you mean to say, your _husband_ is your doctor?" Lady Hartnell exclaimed, looking affronted by the very idea, but La Bella and Dottore exchanged a warm, affectionate glance, not at all perturbed by her distress.

"I can assure you, my patients receive only the highest standard of care," Dottore said. "And none more so than these two." He planted a gentle kiss upon the rise of his wife's cheek, the pair of them painting the perfect picture of wedded bliss, while Lady Hartnell tried - and failed - to hide her own bitter jealousy.

"Will you dance with me, La Bella?"

It did not take a word, or a glance, indeed took no more than a moment in her presence, for Dottore to discern that his wife had enjoyed as much of Lady Hartnell's conversation as she intended to, and he intervened at once. La Bella accepted his offer with grace, and they left their companion and their drinks at the high table in the corner, and ventured instead out onto the dancefloor, sliding elegantly into one another's arms and swaying softly to the sound of gentle strings.

"How much longer?" she asked him, her fingers toying with the soft hair at the nape of his neck while his own settled low at the small of her back.

"Not long now," he answered. Between the music and the hum of conversation their voices did not carry; even if they had, however, no one would be able to discern the true meaning of their words.

"And I can't dissuade you?" she prompted, turning her nails lightly against his skin.

"No," he said. Deftly he spun her round and then drew her in close once more. "The plans have been laid." He let his lips settle, briefly, at the corner of her mouth. "Have faith, my Bella."

"In you?" she answered. "Always."

* * *

So far, everything had gone according to plan. In the aftermath of the Archbishop's murder, and Hannibal's shocking betrayal in hiding it from her, Clarice had suggested that it might go easier for him if he shared his plans with her. At first he had been resistant to the idea, but the novelty of it moved him in the end; his Starling, once an investigator for the FBI, now an accomplice to murder, not tracking him or attempting to stop him but instead working with him, her cunning and forensics knowledge used to aid him, rather than hinder him, the final unbecoming of what once had been, compelled him, and he had given in to her demands. The next order of business on the brief list he'd drawn up was the _Jefe_ himself, an unbearable pig whose political ideals had less to do with morality than they did with his pockets. The man was a thief and a liar, a serial adulterer and known wife beater - his wife, the hostess of this very event, was known to wear only long sleeves and a heavy layer of makeup at all times, even now - and the anti-democratic factions still very much at work in Buenos Aires had begun to court him. Should the man hold on to power, as apparently he would for several years yet, the future of their very country remained unstable. It was a most unsatisfactory circumstance for Mischa, and therefore it was one Hannibal sought to correct at once.

And it appealed to Clarice, on a certain level. She had been weaned on the legend of American democracy and the ideals of justice, and she found some solace in knowing that the death of this man might maintain peace and prosperity in the region she currently called home, and she felt his life was a sacrifice she could make for the safety, not just of her child, but all the children of Argentina.

Following their dance Hannibal had disappeared from the throng so neatly she was certain no one remarked upon it; it was vital, she knew, that no one notice his absence, but he was well practiced at hiding his movements from the hunters of the world, and she herself hardly noticed that he'd gone. For nearly a quarter of an hour Clarice made the rounds, chatting idly to her acquaintances, and when they asked after her husband she assured them he'd only gone off in search of the loo before quickly disengaging from the conversation. Such an excuse might grant a few moment's reprieve, but if he was gone much longer she was not certain their ruse would remain in place. When the _Jefe's_ death became public knowledge, the police would interview every guest at the party, would demand an accounting of everyone's movements throughout the evening; suppose someone recalled that Dottore had been absent from the party overlong? What would become of them then?

Hannibal was not the only one who could move observed through a crowd; with a growing anxiety Clarice wove her way through the dancers, one hand pressed softly against the swell of her belly, cradling her child close. _He will be all right, little one, you'll see,_ she whispered in the vaults of her own mind, wondering even then if her son could hear her voice, take comfort from it. The baby was always _he,_ when Clarice thought of him; she and Hannibal had decided together to leave the child's sex a mystery until his birth, and each harbored private, disparate hopes in that regard.

At the back of the ballroom Clarice found the door Hannibal had vanished through, and slipped behind it at once, her heart pounding in her throat. The door opened onto a dark corridor, leading back to the rear of the property where the vehicles were kept. Hannibal had sent a note to the _Jefe,_ unsigned, requesting a private audience at a pre-arranged time. The note hinted at both money and treason, and so he remained confident that his mark would be both intrigued and discreet, would not mention it to anyone. But what if he had? What if it was not one man who had met Hannibal here in the guts of the manse, but a squad of them? Suppose he'd been arrested? Suppose -

"You shouldn't be here," a soft voice whispered in her ear, even as a strong arm snaked its way around her waist, binding her in place.

"I was worried," Clarice whispered, relaxing against the warmth of her husband's chest, letting her head rest upon the breadth of his shoulder.

"So little faith, my Starling," Hannibal breathed. He must have been excited, she thought, to call her _Starling_ in this moment; she could feel the adrenaline, the tension, the wild, racing joy of him where their bodies touched.

"Is it done?" she asked.

"Yes."

Such a simple word, and yet it meant the difference between life and death. Hannibal had intended to strangle the _Jefe,_ bare-handed, so as not to draw a connection between this murder and that of the Archbishop. He then planned to dispose of the body by the simple means of stuffing it into the boot of the nearest unlocked car. _Yes,_ he'd told her, and now she knew that the thing was done. Her husband had killed, again; the hand now cradling her swollen belly had only minutes before choked the life from one of the most prominent politicians in Buenos Aires. That thought should not have aroused her, but she felt her body flood with heat nonetheless, and spun to face him, draping her arms around his neck and staring up into his eyes.

 _A killer,_ she thought, _cold-blooded, and dangerous. And mine._

"People will wonder where you've been," she said, but even as she spoke an idea came to her, and she could not help but grin up at him mischievously.

"What are you thinking, my Starling?" Hannibal asked, curious and, she thought, as aroused as she. His hands roamed low over her back, found the curve of her bum beneath aubergine silk, and her heart sang with expectation.

"We ought to come up with some excuse for your absence," she whispered, and then she bowed her head, and pressed her lips firmly against his neck.

Hannibal groaned, delighted, and clutched her ass tighter, rocked her against him while her mouth worked over his skin. The move was a practical one; her deep red lipstick had already left a small stain on the collar of his white shirt, and she caught his skin between her teeth, intent on leaving a more permanent sort of mark while her hands raked through his soft hair and his body hummed with pleasure.

"Such a clever bird," Hannibal whispered, and Clarice grinned against his skin, her heart now racing for another reason entirely, the recent murder all but forgotten. Kissing him like this, feeling the warmth and the hardness of him around her, his body surging with power, left her weak in the knees. It always did, knowing that this man, half-beast, half-god, was hers, and hers alone, knowing that his hands had been made to kill, and yet brought her only pleasure. Her love of him was deviance, of the most decadent kind; he had shown her that there was nothing they could not do together, cracked the world open as easily as if it had been an egg and poured the whole of it out at her feet. They were untouchable; they were free, and above the concerns of lesser men.

It seemed her attentions were having a similarly devastating effect upon him; Hannibal reached for her, suddenly, drew her face up to him so that their lips might crash together even as he sent them both hurtling back against the wall, one strong hand catching hold of her leg, encouraging her to wrap it around his waist while the silk fell back from her skin like a waterfall and his palm sought out the heat of her bare thigh.

"It would not do for me to be the only one who's mussed," Hannibal murmured into their kiss. "What sort of lover would I be, if I left my lady wanting?"

"Most inconsiderate," Clarice agreed, grinning as his hand continued its progress up her leg.

* * *

It had only just occurred to Lillibet Dufrense to wonder where La Bella and Dottore had got off to when she saw them emerge from a back corner of the ballroom, holding hands and all but glowing with their love of one another. She wound her way through the crowd to their side, intent on discerning the meaning for their disappearance, and found the answers she sought at once. La Bella's dress was wrinkled, and there was a lipstick stain on the collar of the Dottore's shirt - and a lovebite upon his neck Lillibet was certain had not been present earlier in the evening. Young love she would have named it, only they were neither of them young. Nor were they old; there was timelessness to them, and to their love, that made them seem at times to be more ghost than mortal, relics of a bygone era. Delighted by the poetic turn of her thoughts Lillibet did not tease them, and they enjoyed the rest of the party as members of the same cohort, the Hartnells and that detestable DeBurges and all the rest. They left as one, much later in the evening, and so delighted had the assembled notables been by the charming Dottore and his blooming, blossoming bride that no one noticed the absence of the _Jefe_ at all.

At least, not until the news broke the following day.


	10. Chapter 10

"Most undignified," Santiago said, not even attempting to hide his glee as they stood together beneath a hazy drizzle of rain, staring at the twisted body of the _Jefe de Gobierno,_ stuffed into the trunk of a minor government official's car like an oversized piece of luggage.

Matteo just grunted; he wouldn't mourn the _Jefe,_ but it had only been five weeks since the murder of the Archbishop. He'd begged and pleaded and amassed as much additional manpower as the higher-ups would deign to give him, furiously searching for leads, but now the entire might of the police force had been redirected, brought to bear against the killer of the _Jefe, w_ hoever that brave soul might have been. The Archbishop would have to wait.

"I imagine there's a pretty long list of known enemies," Santiago said, scratching absently at his cheek. "Starting with Garcia over there."

"It wasn't Garcia," Matteo said. He wasn't looking at his partner; he was studying the body of the _Jefe,_ his bulging eyes, the bruises round his throat. Absently Matteo reached out, as if to wrap his own hand around the _Jefe's_ neck, to test the pattern of the bruising against his own fingers, but he caught himself in time; the forensics team hadn't finished their inspection yet, and there would be hell to pay if he touched the body before they gave the all clear.

"He _is_ in Garcia's car," Santiago pointed out. "And Garcia was at that party last night, and he looks a little wild around the eyes."

"Half of Buenos Aires was at that party," Matteo told him, still eyeing the victim. _Must have been a big man, this killer,_ he thought, _to strangle him barehanded, to carry him to the car, to stuff him inside._ "And wouldn't you be a little nervous, if you found your rival like this?"

"A little," Santiago allowed, though his tone was dissatisfied.

"Garcia is no mastermind, but he would have to be insane to kill this man, put him in his own car, and then ring for the police himself. He'd have to be suicidal."

Killers weren't always clever; for every clever one there were ten who had acted in the heat of the moment, and completely botched the cleanup. In Matteo's experience, killers did stupid things all the time. Sometimes they even called the police to the crime scenes themselves, but those were usually men who'd killed their wives, who were struggling to play the part of the dutiful, grieving husband while secretly exulting in their newfound freedom. This was not such a case, Matteo thought. Dead political rivals did not merit such treatment, and were more often found floating in the river, or rotting on the side of the highway. No, he did not think Garcia had killed this man and then rung the police; it made no sense.

"If not Garcia, then who?" Santiago asked him. "Someone who wanted to frame him?"

"No," Matteo said again. Garcia and his compatriots were doing a fine job losing power all on their own; in a few months Garcia would be irrelevant, and ousting him sooner was not a cause worth killing for. "How long did they say he's been in there?"

"They're not sure yet, but they say he was definitely killed last night, and he was still warm when the killer put him in the car. Probably happened after the party."

"Or during it," Matteo mused. Santiago looked at him strangely; Matteo had a reputation, among his fellow police officers, for making uncanny observations about these crimes. Some of them said he must have been a killer himself, to understand the mind of a murderer so well. Matteo paid them no mind; whispers did not interest him. "If he was killed after the party, how would he have gotten into the car? No, I think it is more likely he was killed during the party, and our murderer was just looking for a convenient place to hide him. Find out from Garcia if his car was unlocked while he was at the party."

"On it, boss," Santiago said, and then he drifted away, and left Matteo alone with his musings and the _Jefe._

The party the night before had been splendid, by all accounts. The guest list was miles long, a who's-who of Argentine elite. There would have been music and dancing, food and laughter, bodies everywhere, and so much _noise._ The _Jefe_ could not be in two places at once; likely most of the guests had not even spoken to him during the party, and had not missed him. It would be easy, in such a throng of self-involved notables, to slip away, to do this deed, and return. The _Jefe's_ mansion was a veritable warren of corridors, designed so that servants could make their way through the place unseen. It would be easy, for someone who knew what they were doing.

And though there were no apparent ties between this murder and the murder of the Archbishop - the _Jefe_ was not known for his piety, and the two men had been killed, and disposed of, in wildly different fashion - the acts were bound together in Matteo's mind, a blood-red cord of violence winding from one to the other. Two of the most prominent men in Buenos Aires, killed less than two months apart, killed in places that were familiar and comfortable to them, places they should have been safe. Killed by professional means, by a man - and Matteo was certain it was a man - of considerable strength and cunning. A man who had taken organs from the Archbishop. Likely there had not been enough time for him to take something from the _Jefe,_ but -

"Oh, Christ," one of the forensic techs swore as he looked over the body in the trunk.

"What is it?" Matteo demanded, stepping through the push of eager investigators, trying to get a better look.

"They took his tongue," the tech said, his face crinkled with disgust.

 _A trophy has been taken here, too_ , Matteo thought. Would it be enough to convince his superiors that the two crimes were linked? It wasn't much to go on, but it was more than he'd had a few minutes before.

As he stood, hands in his pockets, wishing for a cigarette, Santiago returned with a frown on his face.

"Garcia says the vehicle was unlocked during the party," Santiago reported.

 _It's something._ If the vehicle was unlocked, then any one of the guests could have accessed it, if they knew what they were doing, if they were stealthy and mindful of the valets and personal bodyguards who would have been milling around the carpark while their employers enjoyed the festivities.

"Get me that guest list," Matteo told him grimly. "I want to speak to every single person who was at that party last night."

* * *

Though Hannibal was himself an early riser the comfortable life they led in Buenos Aires had made Clarice soft, and her pregnancy made her softer still. She had come to enjoy a lie-in, stretching luxuriously beneath the bedsheets and tempting her husband to join her with every sinuous movement of her ever-changing body. Today was no different; Hannibal had left her in the early hours, gone to exercise and devote some time to travelling through the halls of his mind palace, searching for Mischa. She was hiding from him; he had looked for her, in all the usual places, and sometimes he thought he caught the sound of her gentle laughter, her softly clapping hands, but every time he turned toward that sound he found himself alone. This did not trouble him overmuch; he was, after all, in the process of preparing a place for Mischa. Perhaps, he told himself, she had already taken it up, was even now nestled comfortably beneath Clarice's beating heart, cocooned in safety.

With that delightful thought to comfort him he requested a tea service and a bit of breakfast from the servants, and took the tray himself, carried it up the stairs and into the private domain he shared with his Starling. The sun was rising higher in the sky, but it was only just after ten; the servants knew better than to venture upstairs, just yet. Hannibal was free to come and go as he chose, and so he went, slipped back into the bedroom he shared with his wife, and smiled as he found her splayed out across the bed. Autumn was fast approaching, but it was a warm morning, and Clarice's own internal temperature was fickle, now that she found herself sharing her body with this newcomer. She had wriggled out from beneath the blankets, and lay on her side, her pale, toned legs thrown scissoring across the bedsheets, her silk nightdress riding high towards her hips, the faintest hint of black lace visible beneath it where her body curved so deliciously. What a sight she made, hair black as night spilling over white pillowcases, her body soft and decadent now in a new, exciting way he was coming to appreciate.

"Room service," he announced winsomely.

Clarice smiled at him over her shoulder, but did not move; she was waiting, he knew, for him to come to her. That was not always the way of things between them. Sometimes Clarice reached for him herself, delighted to initiate contact between them, bold enough to ask for what she wanted, but sometimes she simply invited him, and waited to see what he might do. Perhaps he sometimes surprised her still; this was not one of those times.

Very carefully Hannibal set their breakfast on a low table in the corner of the room, and then he went to her, curled himself along the length of her back, brushed her hair aside with his nose so that he could suckle gently at the base of her throat. Clarice hummed, delighted, and reached behind her, tangled her fingers in his hair and held him close against her skin. His arms wrapped around her, seeking the heat of her body; one snaked beneath her, so that he could cup her breast in his palm, and one slid over the rise of her hip to press flush against her belly.

"You are far more tempting than breakfast," he whispered against her skin, and she laughed. That laugh turned into a gasp in a moment, however, and she suddenly clutched his hand, held it tight to the swell of her belly.

"Can you feel that?" she asked him breathlessly. Hannibal splayed his fingers out, starfish-like, focused all of his attention upon the warmth of her beneath his palm. Yes, he could feel it, faintly, like the echo of a familiar song playing from another room; the whisper of movement beneath her skin, the brush of a butterfly's wing.

"She's strong," Hannibal said. "Like her mother." Already she was moving, this child who would soon come to be, testing the confines of her current habitat, stretching out in search of more. _You shall have it,_ he told her silently. _All that you want, all that you need, all that you have ever dreamed. The sunlight upon an aubergine will not be the last thing of beauty you behold._

"He's stubborn," Clarice answered, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Like his father."

A flicker of irritation stirred in Hannibal's gut, but he bit it back. She meant nothing by it, he knew, was not challenging him. Clarice would not stop Mischa's second becoming; she was only teasing him. And in light of the miraculous gift she had given him, he supposed he could allow a little teasing.

"Are you suggesting her mother is not stubborn?" he asked her lightly, punctuating his words with the gentle scrape of his teeth against her neck, the flexing of his hand at her breast. Clarice sighed and pressed herself more firmly against him, the swell of her bum brushing against his slowly wakening interest, her breast filling his palm, searching for more of him.

"I would say _determined,_ " she told him.

"You would be right."

Deep within Hannibal's mind palace another door opened, and he tucked this moment inside it; the sunlight streaming in from behind silver-grey curtains, the dust motes dancing in the air, the warmth of Clarice, the black lace of her knickers, the scent of her lemon soap, insufficient to mask the faint notes of her arousal his well trained senses caught so easily, the butterfly's wing movement of Mischa, turning somersaults beneath his palm. A beautiful moment, and precious, preserved for eternity now, the room and all its contents carefully enshrined in the only place that really mattered to him.

"Are you finished with this business, Hannibal?" she asked him suddenly, and his attention fled from his mind palace to focus her voice at once. It seemed a strange non-sequitur, to him, that Clarice should leave behind the warm thoughts of their child and the sex that was surely to come and travel instead to his recent activities. Then again, perhaps not strange, he told himself; they were thinking of Mischa, Mischa who was moving, who was making her presence known, and it was for Mischa that he had done these things. There had always been a silken cord between Mischa and death; perhaps even Clarice had realized this.

"No," he told her honestly. There were a few names on his list as yet, and they had months before Mischa would enter the world. Time enough for him to complete his task to the fullest, as he intended to.

"I worry about you," she told him, tracing the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers, her touch featherlight and tender. "There's so much that could go wrong."

His pride longed to protest, but he had been held in a cage when he first met his Starling; he would not lie to her, and say he could never be caught. Even lightning may strike the same place twice, and he knew firsthand, now, that he was not entirely beyond the reach of lesser men. He had been captured by the police, by Mason Verger; even Clarice herself had tracked him down.

"There is always a risk," he allowed. "But the risks are calculated. You leave the maths up to me."

"I thought we agreed you would not keep secrets from me." There was the slightest edge of hurt to her voice; she thought he was trying to push her aside, to shield her from his plans, when he had so recently promised to involve her in them. It would not do, he thought, for her to mistrust him now; he would not give her cause to. He would give her the truth, always. At least, he would give her as much as she could bear.

"For right now," he said, his hand sliding slowly over her belly, charting a course for the warm valley of her thighs, "I have no secrets from you. I will not go hunting again, not for some time. And when I do, I shall tell you everything. But for now," his hand had found the silken skin of her inner thighs, drifted up to dance beneath smooth black lace, and found her already slippery and hot as fire. "I think you ought to let your doctor examine you."

"You're - _oh -_ you're changing the subject," she accused him, but she did not stop the progress of his hand, his fingertips playing across her sensitive flesh.

"There will be time enough for taking out the trash later," he told her, nipping at the slowly darkening mark he had left upon her neck. "I have something more interesting in mind, at present."

Perhaps his reassurances were enough for her, for she turned herself in his arms then, reached for his face and drew him to her for a searing kiss. His eyes closed as she touched him, and so did not see the doubt that swirled within her own.


	11. Chapter 11

A doctor's examination had never felt so decadent as this, Clarice thought as she lay stretched out upon their bed, submitting to her husband's gentle attentions. Beneath his hands she was naked; he had not asked her to strip entirely, but she was in a winsome mood, and eager to tease him, and she did so like the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her now, the swell of her belly, the curve of her breast. There had been, from the very first, a certain frisson of electricity whenever he looked at her. In the beginning she had tried with all her might to ignore it, to remind herself that whatever interest he might display to the first woman who'd crossed his path in months, in years, even, she felt nothing for him but curiosity at having encountered such a deep and yet twisted mind. Time had proven her wrong, however, as Hannibal infiltrated her thoughts, buried himself beneath her skin, her pounding heart keeping time to the rhythm of his voice as he taunted her. In the end she had given in, as she knew now that she inevitably must; the choice that had been presented to her in the Chesapeake house had been laid before her feet the moment she first met Hannibal Lecter, and had spent the intervening years quietly waiting for the moment of her decision. It was a choice she had made with open eyes, and could not, would not ever regret.

He was, at that very moment, listening to the sound of their child's heartbeat, a cold stethoscope pressed to her tender skin, his eyes intent as he measured those delicate beats intently, on the lookout, as ever, for the first sign of danger. She had not known, back then, where this road would lead, how one meeting with Hannibal Lecter would lead to the end of her life and to her rebirth, to a beautiful house in Argentina, to decadent evenings spent coiling her body round his beneath silk bedsheets, to a morning like this one, watching him fondly while he listened to the baby, his baby, growing in her belly. She wouldn't have believed it, if anyone had told her so; marriage and babies had never been part of Clarice's plan for her life, and a serial killer with a penchant for eating his victims had never seemed a likely match for her. _It's a funny old world,_ she thought. The girl she had been would not recognize the woman she had become, but perhaps that was as it should be.

"All is well," Hannibal proclaimed, lifting the stethoscope from her skin. It was what she had expected to hear; she felt quite fine, and the baby was moving beneath her skin, and she would not allow herself to consider the more unpleasant possibilities. It seemed to her that so long as the baby was moving, so long as Hannibal could hear his heartbeat, she ought to count herself satisfied, and save her worries for another day.

"Perhaps we should check on you," she said playfully, reaching for him. With one hand she deftly stole away his stethoscope, and with the other she caught hold of his hand, pulled him towards her. Hannibal smiled at her indulgently, stretched himself along her side and tucked his arms beneath his head, watched her in silence as she unfastened a few of his shirt buttons, businesslike despite her own nakedness. Carefully she donned the stethoscope herself, placed the little buds in her ears before pressing the cold metal to Hannibal's chest.

"What does it sound like, my darling?" he asked her. Hannibal had always encouraged her curiosity, and she imagined he would be the same once their little one entered the world, would encourage his son to explore and question even as he encouraged his wife to do the same.

"Like the sea," she said, closing her eyes as she listened, for the sound reminded her of nothing so much as the rhythmic pounding of the waves on the shore, steady and unchanging. There was a comfort to that sound, that reminder that Hannibal was with her, still, and always would be, his life tied to hers by bonds no man could break.

"What do you think? Will I live?"

"For a good many years yet." To seal her promise she moved, then, replaced the stethoscope with her lips and pressed a gentle kiss against his chest.

Hannibal gathered her into his arms, their little game forgotten for the moment, and she rested there, her head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat beneath her ear, his hand roving gently over her side, down towards her belly.

"What shall we call this little one, then?" he asked. His heartbeat did not quicken, no happiness or excitement sufficient to change the steady beat at the very center of him. His pulse had always been steady, even in the midst of a kill; perhaps that was why, Clarice thought, age did not seem to affect him as it did other men. His heart had not known the strain that lesser men endured, for it remained, always, steady.

"I don't know," she confessed. She'd thought about it, a time or two, what name they might give to their son, but none of them sounded right. Hannibal had a grand name, a strong name, a name that struck fear in the hearts of those who heard it, a name torn from the pages of ancient heraldry. It was a heavy legacy for a child to bear; their son could not be a _Mitch_ or a _Billy._ Perhaps _Jack,_ she'd thought a time or two. A reminder, for both her and for Hannibal, of how they had met, a legacy of strength, a man she'd once admired, though both strength and admiration had faded for Jack Crawford in the end.

"I should like to call her Mischa, if you'll agree," Hannibal said carefully.

Something unpleasant twisted low in Clarice's belly; she'd been wondering for weeks now if this was where Hannibal had been heading all along, if this were the true reason he seemed so certain that the baby must be a girl. There had been a time when he had sought to erase Clarice completely, and replace her with Mischa, her body no more than a vehicle for the rebirth of his beloved sister. Did he think their baby, with no history, no memory, no past, a more suitable vessel for Mischa? The thought was an appalling one to Clarice; American individualism had been bred too deeply into her bones for her to accept the erasure of one spirit in favor of another. And besides, she thought, had Hannibal not dedicated much of their time in the Chesapeake house to helping Clarice let go of the memories of her father, to set aside her grief and her anger, to accept his loss and move forward from it in peace? Why should Clarice learn to let go of her grief, when Hannibal would not consent to do the same? Perhaps he only meant the name as an homage, perhaps he had no such fantastical designs, but Clarice knew her husband, and she knew that his every action was instigated by thoughtful purpose.

"I'm not sure that's wise," she told him, her words as carefully chosen, as calmly delivered as his own had been. "We're trying to hide, and choosing that name might be a red flag. And besides, aren't we...aren't we making a fresh start, here? The three of us, making a new life for ourselves?"

He rolled out from beneath her as she spoke, rose to his feet and began to pace the length of the room, and Clarice sat up in the bed, fear and indignation biting at her.

"The teacup will not ever be made whole, Hannibal." His expression as she spoke those words was one of irritation; he was not raging at her, but he was not best pleased with her answer.

"It can be restored, repaired-"

"You may glue the pieces back together but the fractures will always be made visible. It would be something new, and weaker than it ever had been before."

Surely, she thought, he knew that. All that was left of Mischa was a memory, an ancient memory, now, the memory of a man who loved her, but not the girl's own memories themselves. All he could make for himself was a shadow of what once had been.

"I thought we'd been through this," she added, reminding him of the decision he had reached so long before, to embrace Clarice herself and set aside his thoughts of Mischa.

"I decided that you were not an appropriate vessel. Your spirit was too strong, and I...I was too intrigued by you to lose you."

"Are you not intrigued by our baby? Are you not curious to see what sort of person he'll be, half you, and half me, and yet entirely separate? Does that not interest you at all?" Her voice might have slipped into desperation there at the end, but she simply _had_ to make him see sense. Without direction from her conscious mind her hands drifted down to cradle the swell of her belly, holding their child close even now, wondering if the day might soon come when she would have to choose between the man she loved and the child who had not yet come to be. It was an impossible choice, two separate loves at war with one another, and she did not know, yet, which path she might take. She could only hope that Hannibal would not ever force her to choose, for she knew the choice, whatever it might be, would be the end of her. Of all of them.

"You think it will be a boy," Hannibal said. Why he chose that, of all the things she'd said, to respond to Clarice wasn't sure.

"I do."

"Because of Evelda Drumgo?" He asked, and she glared at him, wondering how he had come to read her mind. "Because you stole one boy's mother, and now wish to be a mother to another, to right an old wrong? Are you really so different from me?"

"It isn't the same, Hannibal, and you know it." She wished like hell she wasn't naked, now; she felt defenseless, somehow, sitting in front of him with nothing to shield her from his piercing gaze.

"It appears we are at an impasse, then," he said grimly. "The decision is out of our hands, no matter what we wish. Time will tell which of us is right, and which of us will have to live with our grievances."

"No," Clarice said then. There was hurt in his eyes; she could see his grief, even from a distance. Perhaps he felt that their disagreement had damaged the bonds of affection between them, left him alone with his memories, his goals disdained by the one he loved. A strange feeling for Hannibal, no doubt, who had not loved anyone since Mischa, as far as Clarice was aware. Perhaps he thought that she would gloat, or be smug in her relief should the child be a boy, should his dreams for Mischa never come to be. Whatever the reason, she could see that he was wounded, and she would not have him hurt, not by her own hand. Ponderously she rose from the bed, crossed their room naked and quiet to reach for his hand.

"It isn't about right or wrong, Hannibal," she said. "Neither of us can afford to live in the past. We have to look to the future, now. The teacup will not be made whole, but we have been given a new one. We can protect it, and this one will not shatter."

He smiled at her, sadly, as if _she_ were the child, as if her answer was simple, or naive, but he did not disagree with her. He simply tightened his hold on her hand, and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

"Perhaps you're right after all, my Starling," he said, but neither of them believed him.


End file.
